HARVARD  PLAYS 

"Tie  Harvard  Dramatic  Club 


Second  Series 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT 


EDITED  BY 

GEORGE   P.  BAKER 

PROFESSOR    OF    DRAMATIC    LITERATURE,     HARVARD    UNIVERSITY 


THE  HARVARD  PLAYS 

A  Collection  of  One  Act  Plays 

SELECTED   AND   EDITED   BY 

PROF.  GEORGE  P.  BAKER 
Vol.  I.     Plays  of  the  47  Workshops,  1st  Series 

THREE  PILLS  IN  A  BOTTLE,  by  Rachel  L.  Field. 

A  fantasy,  including  a  dance,  for  4  men,  8  women,  1  cbild;   35 

THEmGOob   MEN  DO,    by    Hubert    Osborne. 

A  drama   on   Shakespeare's     death,    costume,   for    3    men,   3 

women;   30  minutes. 
TWO   CROOKS  AND   A    LADY,    by    Eugene   Pillot. 

An  exciting  crook  play,  for  3  men,  3  women;    20  minutes. 
FREE   SPEECH,    by    Wm.    Prosser. 

An  amusing  satire,  for  7  men;    20  minutes. 

Vol.  II.     Plays  of  the  Harvard  Dramatic  Club, 
1st  Series 

THE  FLORIST   SHOP,    by    Winifred    Hawkridge. 

A  comedy,  for  3  men,  2  wo  men;   45  minutes. 
THE   BANK   ACCOUNT,    by     Howard    Brock. 

A  drama  of  modern  lite,  for  1  man,  2  women;   25  minutes. 
THE   RESCUE,   by    Rita    C.    Smith. 

A  drama  of  New  England  life,  for  3  women;   40  minutes. 
AMERICA   PASSES   Blf,     by    Kenneth    Andrews. 

A  pathetic  comedy,  for  2  men,  2  women;  30  minutes. 

Vol.  HI.     Plays  of  the  Harvard  Club,  2nd  Series 

GARAFELIA'S   HUSBAND,     hv    Esther    \V.    Bates. 

A  drama  of  New  England  life,  for  4  men,  1  woman;  30  minutes. 
THE   FOUR-FLUSHERS,    by     Cleves    Kinkead. 

A  satirical  farce,  for  3  men,  2  women;  30  minutes. 
THE    HARBOR   OF   LOST    SHIPS,    by    Louise    W.    Bray. 

A  tragedy  of  Fisherfolk.  for  2  men,  T  woman,  1  boy;  25  minutes. 
SCALES   AND   THE   SWORD,    by    Farnham    Bbtep. 

An  exciting  drama  of  social   justice,  for    6  men,   1    woman,   1   boy, 

refugees  and  militiamen;   25  minutes. 

Vol.  IV.     Plays  of  the  47  Workshop,  2nd  Series 

THE  PLAYROOM,    by    Doris    Halman. 

A_  touching    fantasy,  for    2  men,  2    women,    2    children;    30 

minutes. 
THE   FLITCH    OF   BACON,    by    Eleanor   Hinkley. 

A  lively  comedy,  costume,  for  5  men,  one  woman;  20  minutes. 
COOKS    AND    CARDINALS,    by    Norman    C.    Lindau. 

A  farce- co mod v.  for  3  men,  2  women;   25  minutes. 
TORCHES,    by    Kenneth    Rnisbeck. 

A  tragedy,  costume,  for  2  men,  2  women;   1  hour. 

PUBLISHED  BY  BRENTANO'S,   NEW  YORK 


PLAYS  OF  THE 

HARVARD 
DRAMATIC  CLUB 


THE  HARBOR  OF  LOST  SHIPS 

By  LOUISE  WHITEFIELD  BRAY 

X      GARAFELIA'S  HUSBAND 

By  ESTHER  WILLARD  BATES 


SCALES  AND  THE  SWORD 

By  FARNHAM  BISHOP 

THE  FOUR-FLUSHERS 

By  CLEVES  KINKEAD 


NEW  YORK 
BRENTANO'S 

1921 


Copyright,  1919 
BY  BRENTANO'S 


First  printing,  June  igao 
Second  printing,  July  iyai 


PS 


V-l. 
Cop 


Attention  is  called  to  the  penalties  provided  by  law  for  any 
infringements  of  the  dramatist 's  rights,  as  follows : 

"  Sec.  4966 :  —  Any  person  publicly  performing  or  representing 
any  dramatic  or  musical  composition  for  which  copyright  has 
been  obtained,  without  the  consent  of  the  proprietor  of  said 
dramatic  or  musical  composition,  or  his  heirs  and  assigns,  shall 
be  liable  for  damages  therefor,  such  damages  in  all  cases  to  be 
assessed  at  such  sum,  not  less  than  one  hundred  dollars  for  the 
first  and  fifty  dollars  for  every  subsequent  performance,  as  to 
the  court  shall  appear  to  be  just.  If  the  unlawful  performance 
and  representation  be  wilful  and  for  profit,  such  person  or  persons 
shall  be  guilty  of  a  misdemeanor,  and  upon  conviction  be  im 
prisoned  for  a  period  not  exceeding  one  year."  —  U.  S.  Revised 
Statutes,  Title  60.  Chap.  3. 


INTRODUCTION 

The  Harvard  Dramatic  Club,  before  the  War 
brought  a  pause  of  two  years  in  its  activities, 
had  for  some  ten  years  produced  annually  as 
part  of  its  activity  three  or  four  one-act  plays. 
The  four  new  selections  from  its  repertory  of  one- 
act  pieces  included  in  this  volume  can  hardly  re 
quire  any  special  introduction,  for  the  history  of 
the  Harvard  Dramatic  Club  was  given  in  the 
prefatory  matter  to  the  volume  of  one-act  plays 
of  this  Club  published  in  1918,  and  the  reception 
by  the  public  of  the  four  plays  therein  contained 
shows  that  they  were  welcome  to  readers  and 
amateur  acting  organizations.  The  plays  here 
printed  have  not  been  chosen  as  the  only  remain 
ing  four  sufficiently  worthy,  for  there  are  others 
any  editor  would  be  glad  to  see  published  in  a 
volume  like  this,  but  as  a  group  which  perhaps 
gives  the  volume  best  variety  and  balance.  The 
editor's  hope  is  that  they  may  please  their  public 
as  well  as  did  the  first  group  of  Harvard  Dramatic 
Club  plays. 

When  the  first  volume  of  one-act  plays  was 
printed  it  looked  as  if  the  Harvard  Dramatic 
Club  might  be  discontinued  for  some  time,  but 
now  when  publication  has  not  exhausted  the  supply 
of  promising  short  plays  in  its  repertory,  the  ap 
proach  of  peace  permits  the  Club  to  make  plans 
[til] 


CHARACTERS 

BAL.AK  HUTCHINSON 
GARAFELIA,  his  wife 
ORION  PIKE,  the  hired  man 
THE  REVEREND  MR.  STEELE 
DOCTOR  TORREY 


Originally  produced  April  6,  1915,  by  the  Harvard  Dramatic 
Club.  Copyright,  1915,  by  Esther  Willard  Bates.  Permission 
for  amateur  or  professional  performances  of  any  kind  must  first 
be  obtained  from  The  47  Workshop,  Harvard  College,  Cambridge, 
Mass.  Moving  Picture  rights  reserved. 


GARAFELIA'S   HUSBAND 

SCENE:  A  large  New  England  kitchen  with 
dark,  stained  wainscoting  half  way  up  the  walls, 
and  above  it  plaster,  once  painted  a  yellow  brown, 
but  now  faded  and  shadowy.  There  are  two 
twelve-paned  windows  in  back  with  tattered  hoi- 
land  shades.  At  their  sills  are  pots  of  ivy  gera 
nium  and  begonia  in  full  bloom..  The  floor  is  dark 
with  age,  the  ceiling  low  and  dingy,  and  there  are 
three  doors,  one  leading  into  the  dining  room, 
one  to  the  woodshed,  and  one  to  the  yard.  The 
latter  has  two  long  panels  of  glass  set  in  the 
upper  portion,  and  these  and  the  windows  look 
out  on  a  country  road,  and  beyond  that,  to  an 
orchard.  Bare  trees  and  withered  grass  show 
that  it  is  late  in  November.  The  sky  is  still  pink 
with  sunset. 

No  lamps  are  lit  within,  but  where  the  chimney 
jog  widens  into  an  enormous  fireplace,  the  crane 
is  swung  back  and  upon  the  black  andirons  a  pile 
of  logs  is  richly  blazing.  The  iron  sink  with  its 
pump  stands  between  the  fireplace  and  the  win 
dows.  Beneath  the  latter  is  a  shabby,  upholstered 
sofa.  There  are  three  stiff-backed  kitchen  chairs 
and  a  table.  Between  the  windows  and  over  the 
chimney  place  hang  bunches  of  seed  corn  affording 
great  masses  of  orange-yellow  color.  Above  these 

[3] 


are  strings  of  red  pepper.  The  effect  of  the  entire 
room  is  darkly  rich  m  color. 

But  the  most  conspicuous  object  in  the  room  is 
a  large,  old-fashioned  four-poster  bed,  with  a 
feather  mattress  and  a  brilliant  patchwork  quilt 
for  covering.  Beneath  it  is  a  small  leather  chest, 
stowed  away.  On  the  right-hand  side,  close  to  the 
head,  is  a  light  stand  with  some  bottles,  a  tumbler 
of  water,  a  teaspoon,  and  two  small  bowls,  sug 
gesting  herb  tea. 

TIME  :  A  November  evening  a  "few  years  ago. 

When  the  curtain  rises,  Balak  is  discovered  sunk 
into  the  depths  of  the  feather  bed.  He  is  an  old 
man  of  seventy  or  thereabouts,  feeble  almost  to 
helplessness,  but  whose  bodily  weakness  is  con 
tradicted  by  a  vivid  look  in  the  eyes  and  an 
unexpected  vigor  of  voice.  He  is  asleep,  and 
Garafelia,  a  woman  of  fifty- fii'e,  straight,  thin, 
with  hair  drawn  tightly  back  from  her  face,  and 
wearing  a  nondescript  wrapper,  stands  looking 
down  at  him  with  tenderness.  She  smooths  the 
quilt,  brings  a  glass  of  fresh  water,  and  tucks  in 
the  sheet  at  the  head  of  the  bed. 

GARAFELIA.  Balak!  [He  doesn't  answer.} 
[With  great  relief]  He's  sound  asleep.  [She 
sighs  and  reaching  under  the  bed  draws  out  <i 
leather-covred  chest.  She  tries  it.  It  is  locked. 
She  goes  again  to  the  bedside,  searching  deftly 
under  the  pillows  for  the  key,  and  draws  it  forth.} 

GARAFELIA.  Balak,  ef  you  was  in  your  right 
mind,  I  would  n't  hev  to  do  this.  [Then  she  draws 
the  chest  over  by  the  fireplace,  and  with  her  back 
[4] 


GARAFELIA'S    HUSBAND 

to  the  bed,  kneels  and  unlocks  it.  Balak  stirs 
slightly  but  she  does  n't  see  him  while  she  is  turn 
ing  over  piles  of  old  letters,  a  few  folded  docu 
ments,  memorandum  books,  and  so  forth.  Then 
Balak,  opening  his  eyes,  begins  to  glare  wildly, 
peering  at  Garafelia  to  see  what  is  in  front  of  her. 
She  has  found  what  she  wanted,  and  folding  the 
document,  places  it  inside  her  dress.  Balak  makes 
an  inarticulate  noise,  and  then  with  an  effort, 
throws  the  quilt  on  the  floor  and  manages  to 
sit  up.] 

BALAK.  You  scarlet  woman !  What  are  you 
doing  with  my  chist?  \_He  points  a  shaking 
finger  at  her,  and  she  turns  slowly  and  sadly.] 

GARAFELIA.     Gittin'  somethin'  of  my  own. 

BALAK.  They  ain't  nothin'  in  my  chist  as  be 
longs  to  you !  Gimme  the  key  ! 

GARAFELIA.     I  'd  orter  take  care  of  it  myself. 

BALAK.  Here  I  lay !  A  sick  man !  I  dunno 
but  I  'm  a-dyin' !  An'  you  come  to  persecute  me 
and  torment  me  — 

GARAFELIA.  Oh,  no,  Balak.  I  don't  want  for 
to  persecute  you !  I  don't  want  to  hurt  you. 
I'm  jest  takin'  care  of  ye!  They  ain't  but  one 
thing  in  this  world  I  want,  and  thet  's  for  you  to 
know  me  once  more.  Oh,  Balak,  think  jest  one 
minute  of  old  times,  jest  hark  back!  Don't  you 
remember?  I'm  your  wife!  I'm  Garafely ! 

BALAK.  Y'  ain't  my  wife  nuther !  I  never  see 
ye  before !  Ye  're  a  strange  woman !  You  're  a 
habitation  of  devils  and  an  unclean  — 

GARAFELIA.  Don't !  I  can't  bear  you  to  say 
such  things ! 

[5] 


GARAFELIA'S   HUSBAND 

BALAK.  An  unclean  thing,  I  say,  and  the  hold 
of  every  foul  sperit !  Gimme  the  key  to  my  chist ! 

GARAFELIA.  I  don't  aim  for  to  trouble  ye! 
Here! 

BALAK.     Keep  away  !     Throw  it  to  me ! 

[She  sadly  throws  him  the  key  and  starts  to 
walk  away,  while  he  carefully  conceals  the  key 
again  under  the  pillows.  ] 

BALAK.  How  come  I  to  sleep  so  soun'  and  not 
rouse  up  when  you  come  snoopin'  nigh  my  pillar? 
Twice  you  tried  to  git  thet  key  afore!  Answer 
me,  you  daughter  of  Satan! 

GARAFELIA.  I  give  you  suthin'  to  make  you 
sleep  — 

BALAK.  I  knowed  it!  Ye  put  suthin'  in  my 
tea !  I  tasted  it ! 

GARAFELIA.     I  had  to. 

BALAK.     What  was  it? 

GARAFELIA.  I  give  ye  six  drops  of  paregoric, 
—  not  enough  to  hurt  a  baby !  Now  don't  get 
excited  — 

[Balak  sits  up  again  and,  turning  to  the  stand, 
seizes  on  a  vial.] 

BALAK.  Pison !  Pison !  Everyone  of  them 
pison !  [He  draws  out  the  cork  and  sniffs  the 
bottle  and  throws  it  on  the  floor,  then  the  other 
bottles,  the  glass  of  water,  and  the  bowls  of  herb 
tea,  muttering  meanwhile.  Orion  Pike,  carrying 
two  milk  pails,  enters  in  the  midst  of  this.  He 
takes  in  the  situation  with  evident  enjoyment, 
while  he  passes  to  and  fro,  carrying  the  pails  to 
the  buttery,  bringing  out  fresh  cans,  and  proceed 
ing  to  strain  the  milk.] 

[6] 


GARAFELIA'S   HUSBAND 

ORION.  Breakin'  up  housekeeping  Balak?  You 
two  ain't  ben  here  a  year  yit ! 

BALAK.  She  's  ben  tryin'  to  pison  me !  Out  o' 
thet  bottle ! 

[Orion  picks  up  the  vial  from  the  floor.] 

ORIOX.     Paregoric  !     I  snummy ! 

BALAK.  She  drugged  me  to  git  the  key  to 
my  chist! 

ORION.     Oh,  ho! 

GARAFELIA  [to  Orion]  What  are  ye  standin' 
there  for?  Take  your  milk  pails  out  in  the  barn 
where  they  belong ! 

BALAK.  Don't  ye  go !  Don't  ye  leave  me  till 
the  doctor  comes  or  the  minister. 

ORION.     Guess  I  '11  stay  ! 

GARAFELIA.  As  long  as  my  husband  is  sick 
and  out  of  his  head,  you  take  orders  from  me! 

ORION.     Now  I  dunno  as  he  is  your  husband ! 

GARAFELIA.  I  ben  merried  to  him  upards  o' 
thutty  year ! 

ORION.  I  dunno  who  you  are  or  where  you 
come  from !  You  two  bought  this  farm  a  twelve 
month  gone  and  no  one  knows  anything  about  ye, 
not  even  the  minister !  Balak  's  ben  tellin'  every 
one  you  ain't  got  no  legal  right  to  be  here  — 

BALAK  [almost  intoning]  She  is  an  evil  thing. 
Let  her  not  come  nigh  the  door  of  my  dwelling. 

[GarafeUa  looks  at  him  despairingly  and,  gomg 
over  to  the  sink,  begins  to  peel  potatoes.] 

ORION.  We  '11  save  this  bottle  of  paregoric, 
Balak.  It  '11  int'rest  the  districk  attorney. 

GARAFELIA  [dryly\  You  '11  never  int'rest  no 
districk  attorney  on  six  drops  of  paregoric. 

m 


GARAFELIA'S   HUSBAND 

ORION  [His  eyes  keep  roaming  back  to  the  open 
chest  on  the  floor.]  Now  what  d'ye  s'pose  she 
wanted  in  your  chest? 

BALAK.     She  won't  say. 

ORION  [with  an  air  of  half-joking,  half-veiled 
threat]  Ef  ye  took  the  deed  to  this  piece  of  prop- 
utty,  Balak  '11  hev  the  law  on  ye ! 

GARAFELIA  [She  peels  another  potato.]  I  wish 
I  had  taken  it.  I  did  n't  think  to. 

BALAK.  Answer,  ye  woman !  What  did  ye 
take  from  my  chist? 

ORION.     Yes,  what  did  ye  take? 

GARAFELIA  [She  was  about  to  tell  Balak,  but 
her  face  hardens  when  Orion  repeats  the  question, 
and  she  goes  back  to  her  work.]  Only  what  be 
longed  to  me. 

BALAK.  They  ain't  nuthin'  in  my  chist  as  be 
longs  to  ye! 

GARAFELIA.     Ye've  forgotten. 

BALAK  [his  voice  shaking]  What  did  ye  take? 
Ask  her  what  she  took,  Orion. 

ORION  [grinning]  She  ain't  talking  to-day ! 
Lemme  git  aout  the  papers  and  see  what 's  missin' 
from  the  box.  [He  drags  the  chest  over  to  the 
bed,  and  hands  the  papers  to  Balak  who  goes  over 
them  eagerly.] 

BALAK.     Thar's  the  deed. 

[Orion  reaches  itching  fingers  for  it  and  looks 
it  over;  then  lays  it  to  one  side.] 

ORION.     Oh,  the  deed  — 

BALAK.  And  thar's  the  receipts  for  the  in- 
t'rest  on  the  mortgage,  and  thar  's  the  mortgage 
paid  in  full,  and  here's  my  letter  of  membership 

[8] 


GARAFELIA'S   HUSBAND 

to  the  Cong'agational  Church.  Answer  me,  ye 
woman,  what  did  ye  take? 

GARAFELIA.      Send  that  man  off  and  I  '11  tell  ye. 

ORION.  No,  ye  don't !  I  'm  goin'  to  stay  right 
here !  Fust  ye  try  to  pison  this  old  man  with 
paregoric ;  then  ye  try  to  git  the  deed  to  his  prop- 
utty  and  he  catches  ye  at  it ! 

GARAFELIA  [quietly  and  with  dignity]  You 
ain't  a  fit  man  to  be  talked  to,  Orion  Pike,  and  I 
had  n't  orter  take  no  notice  on  ye,  but  you  be  a 
mischief-maker,  and  I  got  to.  I  never  tried  to 
pison  Balak,  but  I  had  to  git  suthin'  out  of  his 
chist.  I  can't  hev  folks  say  things  about  rne  thet 
ain't  so,  jest  becuz  my  husband  is  out  of  his  mind. 

ORION.  Balak's  mind  is  jest  as  clear  as  a  bell, 
and  ef  'twarn't,  nuthin'  don't  excuse  you  from 
tryin'  to  pison  him. 

GARAFELIA  [still  very  quiet]  I  only  giv  him  six 
drops,  —  in  his  tea,  —  jest  to  git  him  to  sleep. 
Not  enough  to  pison  a  baby ! 

BALAK.  Fust  she  persecutes  me,  then  she  robs 
me,  and  now  she  pisons  me.  Git  her  to  go,  Orion, 
I'm  skeered  of  her. 

GARAFELIA.  No,  no,  Balak.  I  don't  want  to 
hurt  you  or  trouble  you.  Make  this  man  go,  who 
has  sown  trouble  betwixt  us.  Think  how  I  've 
cared  for  you,  think  how  I  ben  tendin'  you, 
and  feedin'  you!  That  don't  look  nohow  like 
persecution ! 

BALAK  [He  fixes  his  eyes  solemnly  on  her  and 
begins  again  to  intone.]  She  sets  her  abomination 
in  the  house  that  is  called  by  my  name  — 

GARAFELIA.     Don't  say  it  again  — 

[9] 


BALAK.  She  lyeth  in  wait  for  prey,  in  the  twi 
light,  in  the  evening,  in  the  black  and  dark  night. 

GARAFELIA.  Oh-h!  [She  looks  desperately  at 
Orion.]  Don't  you  see  he's  got  a  twist  in  his 
mind?  He'd  never  say  them  things  to  me,  —  to 
his  own  wife! 

BALAK  [more  wildly]  Y' ain't  my  wife  nuther! 
Yer  a  scarlet  woman  and  the  hold  of  every  foul 
sperit.  Remove  yourself  far  from  me !  Go,  I 
say !  Go ! 

GARAFELIA.  I  'm  going.  [She  leaves  the  sink 
and  crosses  the  room  to  the  dining-room  door. 
Then  she  pauses  and  looks  at  Orion.]  But  I 
ain't  goin'  far.  [She  closes  the  door  behind  her. 
Balak  watches  her  exit,  and  then  sinks  back 
trembling  on  his  pillows.  Orion  clumsily  draws 
the  quilt  up  about  him.] 

ORION.  By  Gorry,  Balak,  I  don't  wonder  you 
want  to  git  shet  o'  her! 

BALAK.     Is  she  gone? 

ORION.  I  dunno !  Mebbe  she  's  listening  [He 
tiptoes  over  and  listens  with  his  ear  to  the  crack  of 
the  door,  and  then  back.]  I  don't  hear  nuthin'. 

BALAK.  She's  there!  She's  allus  there!  I 
wish  the  minister  'ud  come.  He  'd  make  her  go. 

ORION.     I  won't  let  her  do  you  no  harm. 

BALAK.     Then  git  her  away  ! 

ORION.  I  told  ye  before  I  can't  order  no  one 
off  another  man's  proputty. 

BALAK.  Wai,  I  'm  goin'  to  leave  it  to  ye  in  my 
will.  I  ben  tellin'  ye  so  right  along. 

ORION.  Are  ye  sure  she  ain't  got  no  claim 
on  it? 

[10] 


GARAFELIA'S    HUSBAND 

BALAK   [bristling]   She? 

ORION.  Seein'  as  how  she  claims  to  be  your 
wife  — 

BALAK  [He  roars.]  She  ain't  my  wife!  It's 
mine  and  I  '11  do  what  I  like  with  it. 

[Orion  hushes  him  with  a  gesture,  and  listens. 
Then  he  tiptoes  over  to  the  door.  There  stands 
Garafelia  leaning  against  the  door-jamb,  her  face 
distorted  with  suffering,  her  hands  clenched.  She 
does  not  move  or  look  ashamed,  but  masks  her 
face  again  into  hardness.] 

GARAFELIA.     I  told  ye  I  was  n't  goin'  far. 

BALAK.  O  my  God!  Git  a  constable  ef  ye 
hev  to. 

[Garafelia  reaches  out  her  hand  and  softly 
closes  the  door,  so  that  she  is  no  longer  in  sight.] 

ORION.  I  tell  ye  I  ain't  no  right  to  order  any 
one  out  a  house  withouten  it 's  mine. 

BALAK.  Ef  —  ef  —  ef  I  giv  it  to  ye  now,  will 
ye  git  her  off? 

ORION.  Ye '11  hev  to  sign  a  deed,  ye  know,  ef 
ye  want  me  to  keep  her  out. 

BALAK.     Git  the  deed  drawed  and  I  will. 

ORION.  You  ben  sayin'  thet  right  along,  so  I 
brung  a  deed  with  me.  [He  takes  it  out  of  his 
pocket  with  an  attempt  at  naturalness.] 

BALAK.  Ye  hev !  Terrible  forehanded  of  ye. 
I  dunno  's  I  'm  ready  to-day. 

ORION.  Mebbe  you  want  me  to  go  off  and 
leave  you  alone  with  her. 

BALAK.  You  're  all  agin  me ;  I  don't  trust  you 
nuther. 

ORION.     I  guess  I  '11  be  goin' ! 

[11] 


GARAFELIA'S   HUSBAND 

BALAK.  Oh,  Lordy,  Lordy,  don't  ye  go,  Orion ! 
Lemme  see  the  deed. 

[Orion,  with  an  indifferent  air,  hands  the  deed 
to  Balak,  who  opens  it  peevishly.  Steele,  the  min 
ister,  passes  the  window  and  raps  on  the  door. 
Orion  opens  it.] 

ORION.  Glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Steele.  Here  's 
the  minister,  Balak.  Mr.  Steele,  this  is  Balak 
Hutchinson.  He  ain't  ben  livin'  in  our  town  long, 
and  he  ain't  feelin'  very  spry. 

BALAK.     No,  I  ben  in  gret  trouble. 

STEELE  [a  little  cautiously]  I  am  sorry  to  hear 
it.  Can  I  help  you  in  any  way? 

BALAK  [low  and  earnestly]  Git  her  off ! 

STEELE.     Get  who  off  —  ? 

BALAK  [rapidly,  but  increasing  in  excitement 
as  he  goes  on]  She  come  here,  a  year  ago,  mebbe 
it  was  two,  I  dunno  —  I  don't  remember.  She's  a 
stranger  to  me  and  all  my  ways.  I  never  sot  eye 
on  her  before,  but  she  got  me  to  come  aAvay  with 
her  to  this  town  where  I  don't  know  nobody  —  and 
she  persecutes  me.  She  won't  go  away  when  I 
tell  her,  and  she 's  round  all  the  time.  She  sits  at 
the  table  with  me,  she  follcrs  me  where  I  go,  and 
she  says  she 's  my  wife !  I  moved  my  bed  down 
here  to  git  rid  of  her. 

STEELE.     I  don't  understand  — 

ORION.  The  woman 's  in  the  other  room. 
And  that  ain't  all,  either.  She's  ben  tryin,'  to 
pison  him. 

STEELE.     Are  you  sure? 

ORION.  She's  confessed.  And  Balak  wants  to 
[12] 


GARAFELIA'S    HUSBAND 

deed  his  proputty  to  me,  so 's  I  can  order  her  off 
the  premises. 

STEELE.     Is  that  necessary? 

ORION.     If  I  'm  to  take  care  of  him. 

STEELE.     Let  Mr.  Hutchinson  tell  her  to  go. 

BALAK.      She  doesn't  mind  what  I  say. 

ORION.     Will  you  witness  the  deed,  Mr.  Steele? 

STEELE  [dubiously]  Under  the  right  circum 
stances,  I  might  consent,  —  but  —  here  — 

BALAK.  Sho !  Hist  me  up,  Orion.  Oh,  Lordy, 
what  a  pain  I  got.  I  think  I  be  a-goin'  to  die  — 
[Orion  hands  him  the  pen.]  Promise  me  you'll 
git  her  off? 

ORION.  You  won't  see  her  heels  for  dust. 
Here,  Balak.  Now,  Mr.  Steele. 

STEELE.     This    seems  —  a    trifle  —  hasty  — 

ORION.  Ho,  no,  no,  no  !  Balak 's  ben  intendin' 
it  right  along. 

BALAK.  No,  I  hain't  nuther!  I  was  goin'  to 
leave  it  to  you.  Ye  had  the  deed  already  in  ycr 
pocket.  Ye  told  me  she'd  keep  a-persecutin'  me 
ef  I  didn't  deed  it  to  ye! 

STEELE.  I  cannot  witness  this  without  seeing 
the  woman.  Call  her  in  and  tell  her  of  it. 

ORION.  No  need  to  tell  her  anythin' !  She 's 
got  her  eye  to  the  keyhole  now.  Watch!  [He 
goes  to  the  door.  There  stands  Garafelia  as 
before.  Steele  moves  toward  her,  holding  out  his 
hand.  She  ignores  it,  but  enters  the  room  look 
ing  at  him  proudly  and  yet  with  shrinking.] 

STEELE.     How  do  you  do,  Mrs. — 

GARAFELIA  [firmly  but  sadly]  Mrs.  Hutcliinson 
is  my  name. 

[13] 


GARAFELIA'S   HUSBAND 

BALAK  [like  the  flick  of  a  whip]  Y'  ain't  Mis' 
Hutchinson ! 

STEELE.  Come,  come,  Mr.  Hutchinson,  this 
won't  do.  [To  Garafelia]  I  've  been  hearing 
about  you  —  I  hope  you  will  pardon  me  —  I  mean 
this  kindly  —  but  —  can  you  prove  you  are  who 
you  say  you  are? 

GARAFELIA  [dryly]  I  dunno  as  you  've  any  call 
to  concern  yourself  in  my  affairs. 

STEELE  [instantly  peppery]  Then  I  may  under 
stand  you've  decided  to  go  away? 

GARAFELIA.  No.  [She  returns  to  her  work  at 
the  sink.] 

STEELE.  Mr.  Hutchinson  has  asked  me  to 
have  you  removed.  What  have  you  to  say? 

GARAFELIA.     I  ain't  goin'! 

STEELE.     Why  do  you  wish  to  remain? 

GARAFELIA.  I  can't  leave  him  with  thet 
thievin'  critter !  An'  anyway,  I  b'long  here ! 

STEELE.  He  says  you  are  not  his  wife. 
[Pause.]  Are  you? 

GARAFELIA.  Yes,  I  am !  I  merried  him  in  good 
faith  and  I  ben  livin'  with  him  thutty  year! 

ORION.     Likely  story ! 

GARAFELIA.     You  shet  your  mouth,  Orion  Pike ! 

STEELE.  I  cannot  remain  to  hear  such  bicker 
ing  as  this. 

GARAFELIA.     I  ain't  keepin'  you  as  I  know  on. 

ORION.  Don't  go,  Mr.  Steele.  Ye  see  what 
she  is! 

STEELE.  I  think  we  can  reach  a  better  solu 
tion  by  invoking  the  divine  blessing  in  a  word  of 
silent  prayer.  [He  rises  ministerially,  closes  his 
[14] 


eyes,  and  bends  his  head.  Orion,  embarrassed, 
bends  his  also.  Balak  watches  Garafelia  warily, 
and  she,  after  a  second,  bursts  out  angrily,  though 
the  minister,  with  closed  eyes,  continues  his  devo 
tions,  disregarding  her.  When  she  begins,  Orion 
opens  his  eyes  with  dispatch.] 

GARAFELIA.  No,  I  won't  pray  with  you ! 
You  've  condemned  me  in  your  heart !  You  've 
no  sympathy  with  a  heart-broken  wife  whose  hus 
band  's  turned  agin  her  and  wants  her  out  of  his 
house.  I  'm  his  legal  wife  and  I  know  it,  and  he  'd 
know  it  only  he  ain't  in  his  right  mind,  and  this 
scandal-mongerin'  mischief-maker  gits  my  prop- 
utty  away  from  me! 

STEELE  [opening  his  eyes  and  surveying  her 
like  one  slowly  returning  to  consciousness]  The 
true  woman  would  be  caring  about  her  husband's 
love,  not  his  property. 

ORION.  Leave  her  be.  Let's  jest  finish  up 
this  business.  [He  offers  the  pen  to  Steele.] 

STEELE.  Have  you  any  reason  to  offer  why 
I  should  not  sign  this  deed?  [He  looks  at  Gara 
felia,  but  with  an  air  of  utter  weariness,  she  has 
turned  silently  away,  and  gone  back  to  her  work.] 
I  am  waiting  to  hear  any  objections.  [He  signs.] 
Her  silence  has  convinced  me  that  she  has  no 
legal  claim  on  this  man. 

GARAFELIA  [without  turning  round]  No  pro 
test  warn't  needed.  Your  deed  's  no  good. 

ORION.     What  do  you  mean? 

GARAFELIA.  No  man  can  sign  away  his  home 
stead  without  his  wife's  signature.  You  ain't  got 
mine. 

[15] 


GARAFELIA'S   HUSBAND 

BALAK.      She  ain't  my  wife. 

ORION.  There 's  your  answer.  Your  signa 
ture  ain't  called  for. 

GARAFELIA.  I  am  his  wife.  Read  that.  [She 
draws  a  document  from  out  her  dress.] 

STEELE     [looking    at    it    suspiciously]     Balak 
Hutchinson     and     Garafelia    Keith  —  married  — 
South  Abington — 1884- 

BALAK.  She  stole  it  from  my  chist !  It 's  mine, 
mine  and  Garafely's !  She  drugged  me  to  git  my 
keys !  She  giv  me  pison  in  my  tea !  She  ain't  my 
wife,  Mr.  Steele!  Lord  in  heaven,  how  long  shall 
I  suffer  her? 

STEELE.     Is  it  true  you  drugged  this  man? 

GARAFELIA.  I  had  to  git  my  merriage  certifi 
cate.  People  was  sayin'  things  that  warn't  so. 

ORION.  Another  woman's  marriage  lines  won't 
do  you  no  good. 

GARAFELIA  [to  Steele]  I  swear  they  are  mine. 

STEELE.  My  good  woman,  that  paper  is  of 
no  value  unless  you  can  be  identified.  People  who 
know  you,  where  are  they? 

GARAFELIA.  I  could  n.'t  hev  them  see  Balak  like 
this ! 

BALAK.     I  never  laid  eye  on  her  before! 

STEELE  [doubtfully,  yet  with  a  certain  pity] 
You  see  how  this  man  regards  you. 

GARAFELIA.  Not  always.  Sometimes,  —  I 
think — he  remembers. 

STEELE  [not  unkindly]  Unless  you  can  show 
us  who  you  are,  I  think  you  had  better  go  away. 

[Garafelia  gives  him  a  long  look  and  then  turns 
desperately  to  Balak.] 

[16] 


GARAFELIA'S   HUSBAND 

GARAFELIA.  Balak,  see  if  I  can't  make  you 
remember  who  I  am  —  and  how  we  was  married  in 
South  Abington  thutty  years  ago  last  June. 
Your  father  and  mother  druv  over  from  Bridge- 
water  for  the  weddin',  and  Jotham  stood  up  with 
you  and  your  sister  Nell  with  me.  You  remember 
Nell,  don't  you?  [She  stops  almost  hopefully  and 
looks  at  him  but  Balak  regards  her  with  a  steady, 
unwinking  look.]  And  we  went  to  live  down  at 
the  little  white  house  at  Four  Corners,  and  you 
sot  out  them  butternut  trees  by  the  front  gate  and 
the  row  of  white  lilacs  — 

BALAK.  I  —  dunno— ^what —  [He  turns  to 
Orion.]  Do  I  remember? 

ORION  [muttering]  Cos  not ! 

GARAFELIA  [drawing  a  little  nearer  to  him] 
Oh,  you  do  remember !  An'  summer  nights,  comin' 
home  from  the  shoeshop,  and  me  meetin'  you  by 
the  orchard  gate  so  's  we  could  walk  up  through 
the  gardin  and  see  how  things  was  growin'.  Don't 
you  recollect  them  tiger  lilies  by  the  stone  wall? 
[Balak  looks  at  her  in  a  troubled  way.]  Oh, 
Balak,  you  can't  hev  forgot  it  all!  The  things 
thet  happened  in  thet  little  house.  You  hain't 
forgot  the  night  Jotham  was  born?  An'  you 
come  up  to  see  him,  and  he  took  right  holt  of  your 
finger,  an'  you  sot  there  tell  daylight,  never 
movin' —  [Balak  continues  to  look  straight  at 
Garafelia.  He  makes  an  inarticulate  noise  in  his 
throat.  Garafelia's  voice  grows  harsh  and  break 
ing.]  Ah,  Balak,  we  didn't  ever  think  we  should 
lose  him,  did  we?  And  when  he  died,  you  was 
good  to  me  —  I  shall  never  forgit  how  good.  Oh, 
[17] 


GARAFELIA'S   HUSBAND 

Balak —  be  good  to  me  now!  [Garafelia  inadver 
tently  draws  too  near  the  bed,  and  Balak,  who  has 
been  following  her  intently,  suddenly  shrinks  back 
like  a  frightened  child  and  clutches  Orion.] 

BALAK.  Take  her  away !  I  'm  afraid  of  her ! 
Don't  let  her  look  at  me  like  that ! 

[Garafelia  turns  abruptly  away  and  walks  to 
the  window,  her  back  to  the  men,  who  are  both 
somewhat  affected  by  her  pleading.  Orion  re 
covers  himself  first.] 

ORION.  Ye  can't  make  a  man  remember  what 
he  ain't  seen. 

GARAFELIA  [turning  on  him  suddenly]  You  de- 
vourer  of  widow's  housen !  You  deviser  of  iniq 
uity  !  May  you  lie  down  with  bitterness  and  rise 
up  in  sorrow!  May  the  day  come  to  pass  when 
God  shall  smite  you  with  an  everlasting  curse ! 

ORION  [starting  towards  her]  I  '11  learn  you  to 
curse  — 

GARAFELIA  [snatching  up  the  poker  from  the 
fireplace]  Go !  Take  yourself  off  and  leave  me 
with  my  man. 

STEELE.     My  good  woman,  he  's  dying. 

ORION  [retreating  toward  the  door]  You  don't 
bulldoze  me!  I  '11  get  the  sheriff  here,  or  the  first 
man  I  see,  and  run  you  out  of  this  town.  [He 
goes  out,  and  Balak  gives  a  wail  of  fear.] 

GARAFELIA  [to  Steele]  You,  too! 

[Steele  looks  at  her  pityingly  and  goes  out 
with  dignity,  but  Balak,  seeing  he  is  left  alone, 
cowers  down  under  the  quilt  and  begins  to  mutter 
rapidly.] 

BALAK.  In  the  twilight,  in  the  evening,  in  the 
[18] 


GARAFELIA'S   HUSBAND 

black  and  dark  night,  she  lyeth  in  wait  for  prey. 
Her  mouth  droppeth  gall  and  honey,  her  lips 
speak  evil.  The  words  of  the  strange  woman  are 
a  deep  pit  and  her  end  is  bitter  as  wormwood.  Re 
move  her  way  far  from  me.  Let  her  not  come  nigh 
the  door  of  my  dwelling. 

GARAFELIA.  Oh,  Balak,  don't  die  with  words 
like  that  on  your  lips.  I  can't  leave  you.  I  must 
stay  with  you  even  if  you  hate  me. 

[A  sound  of  buggy  wheels  is  heard  and  Orion's 
voice  off  stage.  "  Doctor,  doctor!  Come  quick! " 
Then  the  doctor's  voice,  "  Whoa!"  and  the  drop 
ping  of  the  weight.  The  three  men  pass  the  win 
dow  and  enter,  the  Doctor,  alert  but  uncurious, 
Orion  bearing  a  pitchfork,  Mr.  Steele  puzzled,  but 
with  growing  sympathy  for  Garafelia.  She  still 
stands  as  she  did,  on  the  defensive,  her  back  to  the 
fireplace,  the  poker  m  her  hand.] 

GARAFELIA.  Doctor?  [He  nods  while  he 
draws  off  his  overcoat  and  she  drops  the  poker.] 
Oh,  Doctor,  he's  dying!  Make  him  live  a  little 
longer ! 

DOCTOR.  We'll  do  what  we  can,  Mrs.  Hutch- 
inson. 

ORION  [m  a  stage  whisper}  She  ain't  his  wife. 

BALAK.  No,  she  ain't  my  wife !  She 's  Baby 
lonian  woman ;  her  feet  take  hold  on  hell  — 

DOCTOR  [taking  Balak' s  pulse  and  noting  that 
he  shrinks  when  Garafelia  brings  a  spoon]  Sure ! 
Sure  thing!  Course  they  do. 

BALAK.  Doctor,  git  her  away.  She  come  to 
my  house  and  she  brung  me  to  this  town  where  I 
don't  know  nobody.  She 's  a  habitation  of  devils, 
[19] 


GARAFELIA'S   HUSBAND 

and  the  hold  of  every  foul  sperit,  and  she  shall  be 
cast  alive  into  a  lake  of  fire  burning  with  brim 
stone — 

DOCTOR  [He  motions  Garafelia  to  the  back  of 
the  room  where  Balak  cannot  see  her.]  So  she 
shall !  Don't  you  worry  any  more  but  take  a  little 
of  this.  Now  she's  gone  and  you  can  go  right 
back  to  sleep. 

[Balak  drinks  obediently  and  closes  his  eyes, 
and  the  Doctor  takes  up  his  stethoscope.] 

ORION.     Doctor ! 

DOCTOR.     Uh-huh? 

ORION.     See  any  symptoms  of  pisoning? 

DOCTOR.  Can't  say  as  I  do.  [He  looks 
shrewdly  round  at  Orion.]  You  look  disappointed. 

ORION.  Wai,  his  iron  constitution  has  with- 
stud  it,  that 's  all ! 

DOCTOR.  If  you've  anything  to  say,  out  with 
it! 

ORION.  Ask  this  woman  here  to  tell  you  what 
she  told  me  she  giv  him. 

[But  the  Doctor  puts  the  ends  of  the  stetho 
scope  in  his  ears,  so  that  he  cannot  hear,  and  smiles 
benevolently  at  Orion,  who  stops  in  a  rage.] 

DOCTOR.  I  'in  not  so  plumb  curious  as  you 
are,  Orion. 

ORION.     She  giv'  him  paregoric!  [shouting] 

STEELE.  In  justice  we  must  say  it  was  only 
a  few  drops. 

DOCTOR    [remoinng  stethoscope]   Well,  now,  I 

might  have  prescribed  that  myself  if  he  got  a  mite 

restless.     Orion,  I  wonder  if  you  can  saw  me  some 

hickory  logs,  so  they'll  last  all  night?     I  like  to 

[20] 


GARAFELIA'S   HUSBAND 

hear  you  sawing  wood,  Orion.  [Orion  hesitates 
but  finally  goes  off  sulkily.  The  Doctor  looks 
meditatively  at  the  minister  for  a  moment.]  Mr. 
Steele,  would  you  be  so  kind  as  to  take  my  horse 
in  and  blanket  him  and  give  him  a  measure  of  oats? 

STEELE.  Certainly.  [He  goes  to  the  door  and 
then  pauses.]  And  how  is  Mr.  Hutchinson? 

DOCTOR.     Pretty  low. 

STEELE.     You  wish  me  to  return? 

DOCTOR  [to  Garafeiia]  Shall  he? 

GARAFELIA.     I  don't  care  — 

[Steele  bows  his  head  in  assent  and  goes  out. 
Balak  sleeps.  The  Doctor  goes  over  to  Garafeiia.] 

DOCTOR  [sitting  down  side  of  her]  He  may 
sleep  for  half  an  hour.  Tell  me,  how  long  has  he 
been  having  these  delusions? 

GARAFELIA.  Then  you  think  —  you  know  — 
he's  really  not  himself? 

DOCTOR.     He  's  not  himself. 

GARAFELIA.  And  you  —  you  believe  —  you 
truly  believe  I'm  his  wife? 

DOCTOR.  I  believe  you  are  a  true  and  faithful 
wife.  [Garafeiia  sits  perfectly  still  for  a  moment, 
her  face  quivering.  Then  she  wipes  her  eyes  with 
a  single  gesture  and  without  relaxing  her  set 
composure.]  Has  he  been  this  way  long? 

GARAFELIA.  It  must  have  been  coming  on,  but 
I  did  n't  know  it,  —  it 's  two  years  anywa}\ 

DOCTOR.     And  how  did  it  begin? 

GARAFELIA.     He   got   religion,   and  getting  it 

late,  somehow,  he  took  it  terrible  hard.     He  began 

shetting  me  up  in  my  room  and  praying  with  me, 

oh,  for  hours,  some  days.     An'  one  day,  it  seemed 

[21] 


GARAFELIA'S   HUSBAND 

as  ef  I  couldn't  stand  it  no  longer,  nohow,  an'  I 
tol'  him  I  couldn't  pray  with  him, — 

DOCTOR.     And  then? 

GARAFELIA.  He  begun  to  turn  agin  me.  He  'd 
not  speak  to  me  for  days  and  days,  but  he  'd  set 
and  look  at  me  for  hours  tell  I  thought  I  'd  go 
crazy ! 

DOCTOR.     When  did  he  first  fail  to  know  you  ? 

GARAFELIA.  One  night.  I  woke  up  and  found 
him  staring  at  me.  When  I  spoke  to  him,  he 
called  me  the  Babylonian  woman,  and  made  me  git 
aout  of  bed  — 

DOCTOR.     And  after  that? 

GARAFELIA.  He  begun  talkin'  to  the  neigh 
bors  about  me,  and,  Doctor,  I  could  n't  bear  it ! 

DOCTOR.     You  must  have  had  friends  — 

GARAFELIA.  They  wanted  me  to  put  him  into 
an  asylum,  but  I  was  afraid  they  would  n't  be  kind 
to  him  there,  so  I  got  him  to  come  here  where  no 
body  knowed  us,  —  and  I  dunno  as  I  did  right 
after  all. 

DOCTOR.     Yes,  yes,  you  did  right,  I  am  sure. 

GARAFELIA.  Then  I  don't  mind  so  much,  so  's 
I  'm  sure  I  did  right.  I  would  n't  mind  what 
people  said,  nor  all  these  months  of  livin'  this 
way,  nor  the  things  he's  said  to  me,  ef  he'd  only 
look  at  me  the  way  he  used  to,  jest  once,  with  his 
eyes  wide  an'  clear,  the  way  they  used  to  be,  and 
smile  a  little,  and  say,  "  Garafely !  " 

DOCTOR.  There 's  a  chance,  one  in  a  hundred, 
that  he  might. 

GARAFELIA.  Doctor!  You  mean  —  know  me? 
[22] 


GARAFELIA'S   HUSBAND 

DOCTOR.  Yes,  when  the  change  sets  in.  [Gara- 
felia  lifts  her  head  and  sits  very  still.  After  a 
pause  Orion  kicks  the  door  open  and  enters  with 
his  arm  full  of  logs  which  he  dumps  noisily  by  the 
fire.]  Fine!  Put  on  a  couple,  Orion.  And  now, 
Mrs.  Hutchinson,  you  go  and  rest  a  little.  If  he 
wakes,  I  will  call  you.  [Garafelia  goes  out.] 
Now,  Orion,  you  and  I  can  have  a  nice  talk. 

ORION.     What  about? 

DOCTOR.  For  one  thing,  what  are  you  hang 
ing  round  for? 

ORION.     None  of  your  damn  business ! 

DOCTOR  [cheerfully  counting  tablets  into  a 
tumbler]  Now  don't  raise  your  voice  like  that  to 
me,  Orion,  or  the  next  time  you  have  one  of  your 
spells,  I  won't  give  you  a  pill!  There's  no  other 
doctor  within  sixteen  miles  !  [Steele  quietly  enters 
from  the  woodshed  door.]  Speak  up,  Orion! 
What  have  you  been  doing? 

STEELE.     You  have  nothing  to  conceal. 

ORION.     And  you  mind  your  own  business ! 

DOCTOR.  Mrs.  Hutchinson  let  fall  a  word  or 
two  about  property.  Do  you  know  what  she 
meant? 

STEELE.  Is  there  any  reason  why  you  should 
not  speak  up,  Orion? 

DOCTOR.  You  Ve  been  getting  this  old  man  to 
give  you  something  in  his  will  he  hadn't  ought  to? 

ORION.  No !  He  has  n't  made  any  will !  You 
think  you  're  smart,  don't  you  ? 

STEELE.     I  will  tell  you,  Doctor. 

ORION.  Don't  you  do  it !  A  witness  ain't  no 
right  to  tell ! 

[23] 


GARAFELIA'S   HUSBAND 

STEELE.  Mr.  Hutchinson  deeded  this  house  to 
Orion  Pike  and  I  witnessed  it. 

DOCTOR.     Orion,  let  me  see  that  deed. 

ORION.     You  hold  your  breath  tell  I  do. 

DOCTOR.  Well,  then,  I  suppose  you  'd  just  as 
soon  tell  me  what 's  in  it  ? 

ORION  [tenth  unction]  It  says  that  Balak  Hutch 
inson  gives  to  Orion  Pike  and  his  heirs  and  as 
signs  forever  a  quitclaim  deed  to  house  and  land 
abuttin'  on  the  corner  of  High  and  School 
streets,  in  consideration  of  one  dollar  and  bene 
fits  conferred. 

DOCTOR.     Sounds  like  good  law,  Orion,  but  — 
did  Mrs.  Hutchinson  sign  it? 

ORION.     They  ain't  no  Mis'  Hutchinson! 

DOCTOR.  Oh,  yes  there  is!  Right  in  the  next 
room. 

ORION.  How  do  you  know?  You  never  saw 
her  before!  Balak  denies  her!  Nobody  knows 
her! 

DOCTOR.     Her  husband  may  — 

ORION.  He  '11  be  dead  and  buried  'fore  he  reck- 
ernizes  her. 

DOCTOR.     Perhaps.     Perhaps  not. 

ORION  [He  mutters.]     I'll  risk  it. 

STKET.E  [to  the  Doctor]  Do  you  mean  there  is  a 
chance  ? 

DOCTOR  [very  gravely]  When  one  races,  there 
is  always  a  chance. 

STEELE.     A  race — ? 

DOCTOR.     With  death. 

[Orion  looks  first  at  one  and  then  at  the  other. 
Then  he  goes  over  to  the  chair  by  the  back  door 
[24] 


GARAFELIA'S   HUSBAND 

and  sits,  stubbornly  holding  his  document.  The 
light  grows  dimmer  and  the  fire  light  leaps  up 
higher.  Steele  goes  to  the  farther  side  of  the 
bed  and  looks  down  at  the  sleeping  old  man. 
Then,  sitting  down,  nearly  out  of  sight,  he  draws 
out  his  Bible  and  begins  to  read  reverently.] 

STEELE.  "  Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled, 
neither  be  afraid.  Ye  believe  in  God,  believe  also 
in  me. 

"  Peace  I  leave  with  you,  my  peace  I  give  unto 
you.  Not  as  the  world  gives,  give  I  unto  you  — 

[Garafelia  comes  silently  through  the  dining- 
room  door  and  goes  to  the  Doctor.] 

GARAFELIA.     Is  there  any  change? 

DOCTOR.     Not  yet. 

[Garafelia  goes  over  to  the  sofa  and  sits  down, 
looking  straight  in  front  of  her,  her  hands  lying 
limply  in  her  lap.  The  grandfather's  clock  whirrs, 
as  if  about  to  strike  and  Balak  stirs  slightly. 
They  look  at  him  but  he  is  still  again,  so  Steele 
resumes  his  reading.] 

STEELE.  "  Yet  a  little  while  and  the  earth  seeth 
me  no  more.  But  ye  see  me.  Because  I  live,  ye 
shall  live  also. 

"  And  now  I  go  my  way  unto  him  that  sent  me, 
and  none  of  you  ask  of  me,  whither  goest  thou?" 

[Then  the  clock  strikes  six  very  slowly  and 
Balak  opens  his  eyes,  and  speaks  as  if  dreaming.] 

BALAK.    Garafely  !  [He  looks  about  as  if  dazed, 

and  then  stares,  puzzled,   through   the  window.] 

Where  are  the  butternut  trees  gone?     Garafely, 

where 's  them  lilac  bushes?      [He  stares  vacantly 

[25] 


GARAFELIA'S   HUSBAND 

at  Orion  and  then  looks  at  the  Doctor,  speaking 
to  him.]  Who  be  you? 

DOCTOR.     A  stranger. 

BALAK.     Where  be  I? 

DOCTOR.     In  your  own  kitchen. 

BALAK.  This  ain't  my  home—  [He  sinks 
back  exhausted  on  the  pillows.] 

STEELE  [after  a  second  or  two]  "  In  my 
Father's  house  are  many  mansions.  If  it  were 
not  so,  I  would  have  told  you.  I  go  to  pre 
pare  a  place  for  you,  and  where  I  am,  ye  may  be 
also." 

BAL-AK  [stirring  again  slightly]  Where 's 
Garafely  ? 

[Garafelia  leans  from  her  chair,  not  daring  yet 
to  move.] 

DOCTOR.     Garafelia? 

BALAK.     My  wife  — 

DOCTOR.     I  will  call  her  — 

STEELE  [very  low  and  reijerently]  "  And  I  saw 
the  holy  city,  New  Jerusalem,  coming  down  out 
of  Heaven,  as  a  bride  adorned  for  her  husband  — 

"  And  the  Spirit  and  the  Bride  say,  Come,  and 
let  him  that  heareth  say,  Come,  and  let  him  that 
is  athirst,  come,  and  whosoever  will,  let  him  take 
of  the  water  of  life  freely." 

[During  the  reading,  the  Doctor  looks  at  Gara- 
felia,  who  comes  slowly  out  of  the  shadows.  As 
she  draws  near  the  bed,  Balak  stretches  out  his 
hands  to  her  feebly.  She  takes  them  and  kneels 
at  the  bedside,  gazing  at  him.] 

GARAFELIA.     Balak,  who  be  I? 

BALAK   [clearly]   Garafely!     Garafely  Keith! 

[26] 


GARAFELIA'S   HUSBAND 

[Balak  sinks  suddenly  back  on  his  pillows, 
Garafelia  raises  herself  and  looks  at  him.  She 
finds  he  has  passed  away  and  falls  on  her  knee's  m 
a  torrent  of  tears.  Orion,  a  look  of  real  awe  on 
his  face,  drops  the  paper  from  his  Juinds  to  the 
floor.] 

SLOW    CURTAIN 


[27] 


THE    FOUR-FLUSHERS 
A  SATIRICAL  FARCE  IN  ONE  ACT 

BY 

CLEVES    KINKEAD 


CHARACTERS 

HENRY  CUNNINGHAM,  a  married  man 
MURIEL  CUNNINGHAM,  his  wife 
VINCENT  DULANEY,  her  affinity 
FULLER,  their  butler 
AN  UNEXPECTED  VISITOR 


Originally  produced  March  31,  1914,  by  the  Harvard  Dramatic 
Club.  Copyright,  1914,  by  Cleves  Kinkead.  This  play  is  fully 
protected  by  copyright.  Permission  to  perform  it  for  amateur 
purposes  must  6rst  be  obtained  from  Norman  Lee  Swartout,  24 
Blackburn  Road,  Summit,  New  Jersey.  Moving  Picture  rights 
reserved. 


THE   FOUR-FLUSHERS 

TIME  :  The  present, 

PLACE:  New  York. 

SCENE  :  The  hour  is  well  along  in  the  afternoon 
of  an  early  winter  day,  and  the  scene  is  laid  in  the 
receiving  room  of  the  Cunningham  suite  on  Fifth 
Avenue.  At  the  rear  of  stage  a  wide  doorway 
is  open  into  a  hallway.  Entrance  from  street 
is  through  this  hallway  from  stage  left.  The 
doorway  has  heavy  tapestry  curtains  on  each  side 
of  it  drawn  up  on  the  inside  of  the  room.  Through 
the  doorway  can  be  seen  a  hat-rack  in  the  hall. 
Silk  hat  and  crook  cane  hang  on  rack.  There  is  a 
door  down  stage  right  and  an  electric  button  on 
wall  near  this  door.  The  afternoon  light  comes 
through  a  window  upper  stage  left  and  blends 
with  the  glow  from  lighted  fireplace  down  stage 
left.  Near  the  center  is  a  large  table  with  sub 
stantial  locked  drawers  in  it.  Another  small  table 
is  near  fireplace.  On  this  table  are  tea  things, 
cigarettes,  cigars,  a  decanter  of  brandy,  a  siphon. 
All  of  these  things  show  evidence  of  use,  and 
from  the  edge  of  a  tea  saucer  on  table  a  lighted 
cigarette  sends  up  a  thread  of  smoke.  There  are 
several  cJiairs,  and  a  large  sofa  is  near  the  fire 
place.  A  large,  ornate  phonograph  stands  in 
lirr.'r  right-hand  corner  of  the  room. 

Modern  dance  music,  played  on  the  phonograph, 
[31] 


THE   FOUR-FLUSHERS 

greets  the  ears  of  the  audience  before  the  rise  of 
the  curtain,  and  as  it  is  going  up  Mrs.  Cunning 
ham  and  Dulaney  are  on  stage.  They  are  both 
dressed  in  the  very  latest  afternoon  raiment  and 
are  a  Jiandsome  couple,  not  extremely  youthful, 
but  rather  sophisticated  in  appearance;  and  each 
gives  the  impression  of  desiring  to  omit  no  detail 
of  dress  or  manner  which  may  make  for  smart 
ness.  The  man  may  be  a  couple  of  years  past 
thirty,  the  woman  falling  that  much  short  of  it. 
She  is  rather  more  of  the  handsome,  graceful, 
dashing  type  than  the  pretty  woman,  and  there  is 
a  certain  hardness  in  her  aggressiveness.  Her 
charm  is  in  her  dash  and  vivacity,  and  the  latter 
is  tempered  by  a  discernment  or  judgment  which 
dwells  in  a  woman,  though  generally  reckoned  as 
being  among  the  masculine  virtues.  There  is  a  cer 
tain  slickness  and  slyness  about  the  man  which  robs 
a  good-looking  but  weak  face  of  some  of  its  charm 
of  regular  features.  They  dance  with  abandon, 
kicking  up  a  rug  and  knocking  over  a  piece  of 
bric-a-brac.  As  the  phonograph  grinds  and  bumps 
he  shuts  it  off.  He  mixes  a  highball  of  the  brandy 
and  soda.  The  man  clinks  the  ice  in  his  glass  and 
his  companion  looks  at  him  with  contentment  — 
the  temporary  contentment  which  can  come  to  one 
of  her  nature  —  and  speaks.  He  lights  a  cigarette. 

MRS.  CUNNINGHAM.  Vincent,  there  is  an  at 
mosphere  about  this  room  which  my  husband  can 
never  appreciate.  [She  fans  away  cigarette 
smoke.] 

DULANEY.  Yes,  I  know,  Muriel  —  there  is  an 
[32] 


THE    FOUR-FLUSHERS 

atmosphere  about  all  our  best  homes  which  only 
those  to  the  manner  born  can  sense.  [He  takes  a 
good  pull  at  his  highball.] 

MRS.  CUNNINGHAM.  The  difference  between  my 
husband  and  you  is  the  difference  between  the 
bourgeois  and  the  gentleman. 

DULANEY.  Wise  little  girl,  you  know  the  real 
ity  of  distinctions  —  and  can  you  not  feel  the  real 
ity  of  affinity?  [He  takes  her  in  his  arms  and 
kisses  her.  At  this  moment  Henry  Cunningham 
comes  into  the  hallway  attired  in  a  business  suit. 
He  removes  his  hat  and  overcoat  and  as  he  goes  to 
hang  them  on  the  rack  he  is  surprised  to  find  that 
Dulaney' s  silk  hat  and  cane  are  hanging  there.  He 
makes  room  for  his  and  looks  inside  Dulaney's  hat 
for  the  initials.  Cunningham  is  a  mild-looking  in 
dividual,  perhaps  seventeen  or  more  years  older 
than  his  wife.  His  manner  and  voice  are  sugges 
tive —  though  not  with,  exaggeration  —  of  the  sissy 
type,  but  his  features  are  not  without  a  certain 
sharpness  and  cunning.  As  he  eases  into  the  door 
way  a  look  of  surprise  is  chased  from  his  face  by 
one  of  consternation,  which  becomes  one  of  pain 
as  the  embrace  of  his  wife  and  her  lover  become 
more  impassioned.  He  sways  and  clutches  at  the 
heavy  curtain  and  then  shrinks  behind  it  and  re 
mains  in  hiding  while  the  lover  resumes  his  dis 
course.]  It  is  this  natural  affinity  between  us 
which  makes  our  love  a  holy  thing. 

MRS.  CUNNINGHAM  [leaping  up  from  the  sofa 
and  pointing  her  finger  at  Dulaney  with  some  heat 
in  her  manner]  Don't  call  our  love  a  holy  thing, 
Vincent  Dulaney. 

[33] 


THE   FOUR-FLUSHERS 

DULANEY.     But  is  it  not  so? 

MRS.  CUNNINGHAM.  Oh  yes  —  perhaps  —  but 
it's  just  what  Henry  Cunningham  said  when  he 
bought  me  for  his  wife.  [She  resumes  her  seat  and 
gazes  into  the  fire  meditatively.]  It 's  a  bitter  mo 
ment  in  a  woman's  life  when  she  hears  her  lover 
talking  just  as  her  husband  did. 

DULANEY.  Well,  what  do  you  expect  a  mere 
man  to  say? 

MRS.  CUNNINGHAM.  Say?  Say?  We  don't 
care  what  men  say.  What  women  want  to-day  is 
action.  [He  makes  a  grab  at  her  but  she  pushes 
him  away.]  No,  no,  don't  be  crass.  I  meant 
resolution  —  decision. 

[The  man  rises,  lights  a  cigarette,  and  stands 
with  his  back  to  the  fire,  flicking  the  ash  from  his 
cigarette  and  thinking.] 

DULANEY.  But,  Muriel,  you  must  know  why 
I  have  not  insisted  on  an  elopement. 

MRS.  CUNNINGHAM.  Perhaps  you  thought  I 
wouldn't  elope? 

DULANEY.  Oh  no,  I  've  always  been  certain  you 
would,  to  be  frank.  But  I  know  how  dependent 
you  arc  for  happiness  on  money  —  and  I  have 
none. 

MRS.  CUNNINGHAM.  Oh  Vincent,  why  didn't 
you  tell  me  that  you  had  no  money  right  at  first  ? 

DULANEY.  Because  that  is  always  the  last 
thing  I  ever  tell  anyone. 

MRS.   CUNNINGHAM.     But  you   need  not  have 
kept  it  from  me.     If  money  is  all  that  is  keeping 
us  apart  we  can  elope  in  ten  minutes. 
[34] 


THE   FOUR-FLUSHERS 

DULANEY.  But,  Muriel,  you  know  how  you 
have  to  have  money. 

MRS.  CUNNINGHAM.     Yes,  and  I  have  it  too. 

DULANEY.  You  have  it  —  you  mean  your  hus 
band  has  it? 

MRS.  CUNNINGHAM.  I  mean  just  this  —  that 
before  I  married  Henry  Cunningham  I  exacted  an 
unconditional  settlement  on  me  of  a  million  dollars. 

DULANEY  [jumps  with  surprise  but  catches 
himself]  A  million  dollars  —  unconditionally  — 
[smiles  off-handedly]  for  better  or  worse? 

MRS.  CUNNINGHAM.  Yes.  And  now  that  our 
obstacle  is  removed  — 

DULANEY  [holding  up  his  hands  in  protest]  But 
is  it  altogether  removed? 

MRS.  CUNNINGHAM.  Have  I  not  money  enough 
for  us  both  —  a  million? 

DULANEY.  Yes,  that's  quite  enough  —  but 
think  of  my  birth  and  breeding,  Muriel.  I  have 
a  delicacy  about  living  on  another  —  I  am  a 
gentleman. 

MRS.  CUNNINGHAM.  But  gentlemen  have  lived 
on  other  people  since  the  world  began. 

DULANEY  [laughing  and  grabbing  Mrs.  Cun 
ningham  as  driven  by  an  irresistible  impulse]  Oh 
you  darling  —  your  cleverness  is  unanswerable, 
your  beauty  is  irresistible,  you  can  do  as  you  like 
with  me.  Think  of  the  wonder  of  love,  Muriel, 
my  sweet.  Here  am  I  —  a  strong  man  —  like  a 
child  in  your  hands.  We  shall  go  to  the  ends  of 
the  world  and  snap  our  fingers  in  its  face. 
[Glances  sheepishly  and  catches  himself.]  I  mean 
—  er  —  er,  that  is  —  we  shall  go  —  we  shall  go. 
[35] 


THE   FOUR-FLUSHERS 

MRS.  CUNNINGHAM.  Well,  then,  let's  go  while 
the  going 's  good. 

DULANEY.  This  madness  born  of  joy  —  it  is 
your  wish,  my  dear? 

MRS.  CUNNINGHAM.  Yes,  I  'm  a  practical 
woman,  Vincent,  and  what  I  want  I  go  after.  Now 
Mother  will  be  in  from  Newport  to-day,  and  she 's 
awfully  prejudiced  against  this  sort  of  thing  — 
you  know  how  the  old  families  look  on  elopements, 
especially  if  one  is  married  —  and  Henry  may  be 
in  at  any  moment.  So  there  is  no  time  to  lose. 
You  go  pack  a  bag  while  I  'm  getting  a  few  things 
together.  Then  come  back  here  in  a  taxi.  Hurry 
up,  now.  [She  goes  swiftly  to  door  right  and  he 
to  door  center.  They  pause  on  the  threshold  and 
blow  a  kiss.] 

DULANEY.  Au  revoir,  fearless  little  warrior. 
I'll  be  back  in  a  few  minutes.  [Exit  Mrs.  Cun 
ningham.  Dulaney  smiles.]  Oh  what  a  snap! 
Onward  Christian  soldier!  [He  takes  his  hat  and 
cane  from  the  rack,  puts  on  his  hat  a  little  to  one 
side,  strikes  an  attitude,  and  rests  his  cane  against 
his  shoulder  as  a  soldier  would  a  sword.  Exit 
Dulaney  with  a  burlesque  march.] 

[For  a  moment  the  stage  is  clear.  Then  from 
behind  his  curtain  the  husband  sticks  his  head  be 
fore  he  emerges.  His  expression  is  that  of  a  man 
so  dumbfounded  as  to  appear  ridiculous.  He 
comes  slowly  down  stage,  scratching  his  head.  He 
presses  button,  waits,  presses  it  again,  and  then 
seats  himself  in  chair  center,  fac'nuj  audience.  His 
expression  is  one  of  comical,  dejected  helplessness. 
Behind  his  back  there  is  business  of  curtain  on  the 

[36] 


THE    FOUR-FLUSHERS 

right  side  of  doorway  and  the  head  of  Fuller,  the 
butler,  is  thrust  forth.  Fuller  is  a  man  of  rather 
impressive  personality.  He  is  dressed  in  the 
conventional  butler  outfit,  and  wears  burnsides 
through  which  the  wind  would  like  to  frolic.  His 
hair  is  white.  His  voice  accentuates  a  dry  humor 
in  his  re'marks  and  gives  weight  to  his  words. 
Cunningham  turns  before  Fuller  has  completely 
emerged  from  the  curtain  and  spies  him,  but  the 
butler  is  undaunted  and  comes  slowly  down  stage.] 

FULLER  [looking  insinuatingly  at  curtain  behind 
which  Cunningham  was  hidden]  Like  master  [then 
glancing  at  other  curtain]  like  man,  sir.  You 
rang,  sir? 

CUNNINGHAM.  Yes  —  er  —  but,  Fuller,  I  just 
happened  to  get  behind  that  curtain  and  found 
it  embarrassing  to  leave. 

FULLER.  I  understand,  sir.  I  just  happened 
to  get  behind  that  one  and  found  it  impossible  to 
leave. 

CUNNINGHAM.  You  know  as  much  as  I  do, 
then? 

FULLER.  Yes,  sir  —  that  is,  about  what  has 
just  happened  here. 

CUNNINGHAM.  A  most  unfortunate  situation, 
Fuller. 

FULLER.     But  not  altogether  uncommon,  sir. 

CUNNINGHAM.     I  'm  completely  surprised. 

FULLER.      Yes,  sir  —  the  husband  always  is,  sir. 

CUNNINGHAM.  You  've  had  experience  in  these 
affairs,  then,  Fuller? 

FULLER.  I  've  served  in  some  of  the  best  homes 
in  New  York,  sir. 

[37] 


THE   FOUR-FLUSHERS 

CUNNINGHAM.     Oh  —  yes,  I  see.    But  have  you 
heard  my  wife  talking  before  with  her   friend  — 
er  —  her  lover  —  how  shall  I  term  him?     Her  — 

FULLER.     Affinities  they  are  called  now,  sir. 

CUNNINGHAM.  Yes,  I  thank  you.  Have  you 
heard  them  or  seen  them  together  before? 

FULLER.  I  came  here  to  work  only  yesterday, 
sir.  But  judging  from  their  way  with  one  another, 
they  had  become  well  acquainted  at  that  time, 
sir. 

CUNNINGHAM  [wincing]  Yes  —  er  —  Fuller,  I 
say  —  did  they  talk  of  eloping  then? 

FULLER.     Not  so  definitely,  sir. 

CUNNINGHAM.  You  haven't  overheard  them 
saying  where  they  meant  to  go? 

FULLER.     They  mentioned  Paradise,  sir. 

CUNNINGHAM  [leaping  up  from  his  chair  and 
pacing  about  the  room]  Paradise!  Paradise!  oh 
dear,  that  makes  me  so  uncomfortable ! 

FULLER.  On  a  trip  to  such  a  place  none  of  us 
would  like  to  be  left  out,  sir. 

CUNNINGHAM  [going  to  drawer  in  table  he  takes 
from  same  a  pistol  and  examines  the  chambers] 
They  will  go  to  no  such  place.  I  shall  prevent 
them,  Fuller  —  mark  my  words,  I  shall  prevent 
them.  When  I  was  a  younger  man  I  was  ac 
counted  one  of  considerable  spirit.  [He  takes  a 
swaggering  pose  in  front  of  the  decanter,  tosses 
off  a  drink  of  brandy,  then  pours  out  another.] 

FULLER.     Have  a  care  of  that  brandy,  sir. 

CUNNINGHAM   [unimpressively  severe]   Remem 
ber,  Fuller,  you  're  my  butler. 
[38] 


THE   FOUR-FLUSHERS 

FULLER.  Yes,  sir,  thank  you,  sir,  but  no  one 
could  be  better  qualified  to  speak  of  the  effects  of 
that  brandy  than  your  butler,  sir.  When  Mr. 
Dulaney  comes  back  here  for  Mrs.  Cunningham, 
it  may  cause  you  to  lose  your  temper. 

CUNNINGHAM.  Lose  my  temper,  indeed !  I  mean 
to  show  quite  a  bit  of  temper.  I  shall  kill  him. 

FULLER.  Begging  your  pardon,  sir,  but  you 
mustn't  kill  him. 

CUNNINGHAM.     Indeed,  and  why  not? 

FULLER.     It 's  no  longer  done,  sir. 

CUNNINGHAM  [puts  down  the  glass  "without  tak 
ing  a  second  drink,  walks  to  chair  center,  seats 
himself,  awkwardly  holding  pistol,  and  looks  up 
at  Fuller  with  an  inquiring  expression]  No  longer 
done? 

FULLER  [advancing  toward  Cunningham's  chair] 
No,  sir.  Not  in  the  best  families,  sir. 

CUNNINGHAM.  But  am  I  to  let  him  walk  off 
with  my  wife  when  I  've  only  had  her  five  months 
myself  ? 

FULLER.  Begging  your  pardon,  sir,  but  how 
many  of  her  suitors  did  you  kill  before  you  could 
win  your  wife? 

CUNNINGHAM  [looking  curiously  at  Fuller] 
One  does  n't  kill  a  rival  to  win  a  woman. 

FULLER.  Exactly,  sir,  and  killing  this  one 
after  marriage  won't  help  you  to  keep  her.  You 
see,  sir,  when  a  husband  butchers  a  lover  it  only 
makes  the  wife  angry  [drawing  nearer  and  rub 
bing  together  his  hands  with  a  growing  enthusiasm 
for  his  own  discourse] .  After  such  a  deed  the  re- 
[39] 


THE    FOUR-FLUSHERS 

lations  of  husband  and  wife  are  strained  —  not  in 
frequently  strained,  sir.  Something  seems  to  come 
between  them,  and  slowly  but  surely  the  pair  will 
drift  apart. 

CUNNINGHAM.  Dear,  dear,  how  you  go  on. 
Fuller.  You  seem  to  be  something  more  than  a 
butler.  One  might  think  that  you  were  an  author 
ity  on  life. 

FULLER.     You  approve  of  my  philosophy,  sir? 

CUNNINGHAM.  Yes  —  er  —  I  suppose  so  —  but 
it  all  seems  a  little  strange  —  coming  from  a 
butler. 

FULLER.  That's  because  the  opportunities  for 
philosophical  discourse  between  master  and  man 
are  so  limited,  sir.  There  is  nothing  that  I  enjo}r 
more  than  discourse  and  repartee,  but  though  I 
move  in  its  atmosphere  I  am  not  of  it.  Often,  sir, 
as  I  walk  among  the  guests  in  a  drawing  room  I 
am  inspired  by  the  conversation,  and  good  things 
to  say  occur  to  me,  sir  —  rejoinders,  snappy  re 
joinders  and  all  manner  of  quips,  and  often  very 
subtle  cynicisms,  sir.  But  only  fancy  with  what 
general  disfavor  I  should  meet  if  I  attempted  to 
engage  in  the  repartee. 

[Toward  the  end  of  this  speech  Cunningham 
fidgets  in  Ms  chair.] 

CUNNINGHAM.  Pardon  me,  Fuller,  I  see  that 
you  like  to  talk  and  you  talk  well,  but  naturally 
I  'm  a  bit  nervous,  upset  and  — 

FULLER.  Yes,  I  'm  coming  to  that,  sir.  I  know 
how  a  husband  feels  when  his  wife  is  about  to  leave 
with  another  man.  Mine  did  it,  sir  —  my  first 
wife  —  years  ago. 

[40] 


THE    FOUR-FLUSHERS 

CUNNINGHAM.  Oh,  indeed !  I  knew  there  was 
something  drawing  us  together,  Fuller.  [Rises 
and  emotionally  puts  his  hand  on  butler's  shoul 
der.]  Tell  me,  when  she  left  you  what  did  you  do? 

FULLER.  I  pursued  the  pair,  sir,  and  overtook 
them. 

CUNNINGHAM.  But  you  counsel  more  pacific 
action  on  my  part  — 

FULLER.  Yes,  sir,  but  I  had  to  give  my  wife 
something  that  she  had  neglected  to  take  with  her. 

CUNNINGHAM.     Eh?    What  was  that? 

FULLER.  The  baby,  sir.  [Pauses.]  I 've  never 
seen  either  since.  [He  gazes  into  space  and  drops 
his  voice.]  Yet  to  say  that  I  'm  an  unhappy  man 
would  be  to  say  that  one's  second  wife  is  not  as 
good  a  gamble  as  the  first  one. 

CUNNINGHAM.  But  no  man  likes  to  lose  his 
wife,  Fuller. 

FULLER  [thoughtfully]  Or  is  it,  sir,  that  he 
does  n't  like  to  feel  that  another  man  can  take  her 
away  from  him?  [Cunningham  starts.]  Perhaps 
that 's  why  he  '11  be  more  concerned  with  killing 
the  other  man  than  holding  the  woman.  [The 
two  men  look  at  each  other,  and  Cunningham 
slowly  hands  the  revolver  to  Fuller,  who  pockets 
it.]  Of  course  there  may  be  other  ways  of  look 
ing  at  these  things,  but  I  'm  a  philosopher. 

CUNNINGHAM.     Then  tell  me  what  to  do,  Fuller. 

FULLER.  But  a  philosopher  does  not  tell  one 
what  to  do,  sir.  He  rather  discourses  on  what  one 
should  have  done.  Seeing  a  troubled  man,  a  phi 
losopher  will  dwell  on  the  futility  of  being  wor- 
[41] 


THE    FOUR-FLUSHERS 

ried,  but  in  an  emergency  he  suggests  no  definite 
plan  of  relief. 

CUNNINGHAM.  Well,  who  would,  then  —  a  police 
man? 

FULLER.  Even  he  might  have  his  limitations, 
sir.  I  fear,  sir,  that  a  man  who  will  settle  a  mil 
lion  dollars  on  his  prospective  wife  is  beyond  the 
comforts  of  philosophy  or  the  aid  of  the  police. 
[Pauses.]  There  should  have  been  a  string  to  it 
somewhere,  sir. 

[The  butler  wags  his  head  mournfully  and  sur 
veys  his  master  with  the  air  of  one  who  must  un 
willingly  give  up  a  hopeless  case,  but  even  as  he  so 
mournfully  shakes  his  head  the  master's  face  lights 
up  with  an  inspiration.  Cunningham,  seated,  taps 
his  forehead  significantly,  smiles,  and  while  the  but 
ler  bends  lower  over  him  and  gazes  with  increasing 
surprise  at  his  employer,  the  latter  looks  off  into 
space  and  mumbles  aloud.] 

CUNNINGHAM.  A  string  to  it.  Eureka!  [tap 
ping  his  forehead  again]  Eureka! 

FULLER  [to  humor  one  he  thinks  is  losing  his 
mind,  perchance]  Yes,  sir,  Eureka,  sir. 

CUNNINGHAM.  Fuller,  there  is  a  string  to  it. 
You  have  given  me  the  cue.  [The  doorbell  rings.] 
There  he  comes,  Fuller.  I  have  an  idea.  Show 
him  right  in  here. 

[Exit  Fuller  center  to  answer  doorbell,  and  the 
master  of  the  home  walks  up  and  down,  pausing  to 
light  a  cigarette  on  which  he  puffs  with  the  awk 
wardness  of  inexperience.  Dulaney  does  not  wait 
for  Fuller  to  announce  him,  but  pushes  past  him 
[42] 


THE    FOUR-FLUSHERS 

on  the  threshold  of  doorway  center  and  enters 
with  a  rush,  while  the  butler  walks  across  stage 
and  goes  out  at  door  right.] 

DULANEY.  All  ready,  my  angel  —  [Surprised 
as  he  sees  Cunningham.] 

CUNNINGHAM.  Well  met,  by  an  outraged  hus 
band  rather  than  a  guilty  wife.  [Dulaney  makes 
ready  for  the  worst,  but  Cunningham  holds  up  his 
hand  and  motions  him  to  a  chair.]  But  I  am  not 
angry.  Let  us  reason  together.  Be  seated.  [Du 
laney  is  seated.]  You  have  come  for  my  wife,  I 
believe  ? 

DULANEY  [coolly  nodding]  Why,  yes,  I  believe 
that 's  the  idea.  But  may  I  ask  how  you  learned 
of  our  plans? 

CUNNINGHAM.  Certainly.  I 've  j ust  been  talk 
ing  the  matter  over  with  Mrs.  Cunningham. 

DULANEY  [losing  his  coolness  in  his  perplexity] 
What's  that? 

CUNNINGHAM.  Yes,  you  see  Muriel  was  under 
the  impression  that  a  prenuptial  settlement  which 
I  made  on  her  would  hold  even  if  she  left  me.  [He 
eyes  Dulaney  craftily  as  the  latter  starts  and  then 
attempts  a  disinterested  attitude]  I  was  pointing 
out  to  her  that  as  the  papers  read  she  could  only 
have  her  money  by  also  having  me.  [Closely 
watching  the  effect  on  Dulaney.] 

DULANEY.  But  what  had  this  to  do  with  me? 
I  did  n't  come  here  to  discuss  your  finances.  I  am 
too  much  of  a  gentleman  to  discuss  money.  I  am 
here  simply  to  elope  with  your  wife. 

CUNNINGHAM.  Pardon  me  if  I  have  misjudged 
[43] 


THE   FOUR-FLUSHERS 

you.  But  sometimes  gentlemen  desire  money  as 
much  as  they  desire  other  men's  wives. 

[Cunningham  looks  at  Dulaney,  who  seems  to 
be  thinking  the  matter  over  and  catching  his 
meaning.  ] 

DULANEY.  If  you  want  me  to  believe  your 
story  you  've  got  to  show  me  the  settlement  papers. 

[Cunningham,  without  answering,  takes  a  key 
from  his  pocket  and  holds  it  up  significantly.  He 
walks  toward  table  and  unlocks  a  drawer  therein, 
takes  out  a  document  and  hands  it  to  Dulaney, 
who  inspects  same  with  interest.] 

CUNNINGHAM.  These  papers  will  prove  to  you 
that  my  wife  must  have  married  me  because  she 
happened  to  be  attracted  by  the  glitter  of  my  soul 
as  it  sparkled  in  the  sun. 

FULLER  [poking  his  face  in  door  right]  Capital, 
sir  —  very  good  indeed  —  a  striking  cynicism. 
Really,  sir,  I  couldn't  have  done  better  myself. 
[Hastily  withdraws  and  closes  door.] 

CUNNINGHAM  [apologetically]  He's  quite  a 
talker. 

DULANEY.  Something  of  a  listener,  too.  [Du 
laney  seats  himself  and  scrutinizes  document  with 
undisguised  interest.  He  is  seated  center  facing 
audience,  and  Cunningham  leans  over  the  back  of 
chair  pointing  to  certain  phrases  in  the  writing 
from,  over  Dulaney' s  shoulder.] 

CUNNINGHAM.  You  see  there  —  and  read  that 
[Dulaney  reads  to  himself,  and  as  the  two  are  thus 
absorbed  Mrs.  Cunningham  comes  from  stage  right 
and  appears  on  threshold  of  doorway  center.  She 
has  on  a  hat  and  coat  and  is  attired  for  traveling, 
[44] 


THE    FOUR-FLUSHERS 

carrying  a  bag.  She  gazes  for  a  moment  in  amaze 
ment  at  the  two  men,  who  do  not  see  her.  Cunning 
ham  continues] — and  that  also,  it  cannot  possibly 
be  construed  otherwise  —  if  she  leaves  me  she 
does  n't  get  a  cent. 

[Mrs.  Cunningham,  still  on  the  threshold,  is  re 
covering  from  her  surprise  sufficiently  to  grasp  the 
situation.  Then  she  reels  and  falls  toward  the 
curtain  right.  A  pair  of  masculine  hands,  white- 
cuffed  and  black- sleeved,  reach  out  from  the  cur 
tain  and  catch  her:  one  of  these  hands  goes  over 
her  mouth  and  she  is  drawn  behind  curtain.  There 
is  business  of  disturbed  curtain,  and  a  hand  goes 
out  from  it  and  draws  her  bag  behind  it.  Gradu 
ally  the  curtain  is  stilled  while  Dulaney  continues 
his  silent  reading.  He  finishes  and  from  his  seat 
looks  up  at  Cunningham.] 

DULANEY.  Not  a  damned  red  cent  —  you're 
right. 

CUNNINGHAM  [preening  himself]  Do  you  know, 
Mr.  Dulaney,  I  often  wonder  why  people  so  fre 
quently  take  me  for  an  ass. 

DULANEY.  That's  easy  —  it's  the  way  you 
look. 

CUNNINGHAM.  My  experience  in  legal  matters 
teaches  me  that  a  lawyer's  reputation  rarely  helps 
his  client  —  it's  character  that  counts.  Never 
mind  your  lawyer's  reputation,  just  so  his  char 
acter  is  bad. 

DULANEY.  Well,  you  certainly  picked  a  winner 
to  draw  up  this  settlement.  [Confidentially]  And 
your  wife  and  her  mother  think  they  have  got  you 
sewed  up  in  a  sack.  [Dulaney  rises  and  tiptoes 

[45] 


THE   FOUR-FLUSHERS 

across  stage  to  door  right,  which  he  opens  hastily. 
He  looks  behind  it,  closes  it,  and  then  comes 
toward  Cunningham.}  I  just  wanted  to  see  if  that 
sneaking,  blackmailing  butler  was  at  the  keyhole. 

CUNNINGHAM  \_airily~\  Yes? 

DULANEY.  I  'm  no  more  of  a  gentleman  than 
you  are.  Just  between  two  crooks,  I  'm  the  slick 
est  four-flusher  that  ever  graduated  from  the 
tea  dances. 

CUNNINGHAM.  Then  you're  neither  a  gentle 
man  nor  a  society  man? 

DULANEY.      Certainly  not. 

CUNNINGHAM.  Then  I  don't  believe  that  any 
decent  married  woman  would  elope  with  you  if  she 
knew  it.  And  I  '11  tell  my  wife. 

DULANEY.  She  won't  believe  you.  Why,  the 
first  time  she  saw  me  at  the  cabaret  she  thought 
that  I  was  the  one  chance  of  her  life  to  get  into 
society. 

CUNNINGHAM.  But  she's  in  society  —  always 
has  been. 

DULANEY  {laughing  and  shaking  his  head}  If 
she  had  been,  she  would  not  have  thought  that  I 
was. 

CUNNINGHAM.  But  Muriel  is  the  daughter  of 
Mrs.  Van  Vleet  —  villa  at  Newport  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing. 

DULANEY.  Say,  have  you  ever  seen  that  villa, 
or  Mrs.  Van  Vleet? 

CUNNINGHAM.  No,  but  I  've  been  giving  Muriel 
money  for  them  both. 

DULANEY.  The  worst  of  us  have  our  uses. 
Dear  little  Muriel !  She  told  me  all  about  her  old 


THE    FOUR-FLUSHERS 

Knickerbocker  family,  too,  and  the  villa  by  the 
sea,  and  I  pretended  to  believe  it,  all  the  while  try 
ing  to  find  out  about  her  money,  and  when  she 
finally  told  me  about  the  million  dollars  [he  gazes 
into  space,  smiling  raptly]  —  oh,  I  never  knew 
what  it  really  meant  to  love  until  then.  [He  is  for 
a  moment  as  one  in  a  pleasant  day  dream,  then 
he  seems  to  come  to  earth.]  See  here,  Cunning 
ham,  let 's  be  frank  and  get  down  to  business. 
[Pauses,  then  draws  closer.]  Give  me  a  thousand 
dollars  and  I  '11  never  go  near  your  wife  again. 

CUNNINGHAM.     This  is  blackmail. 

DULANEY.  Blackmail  without  witnesses  is  like 
pleasant  discourse  in  a  rose  garden. 

CUNNINGHAM.  But  a  thousand  dollars  is  a 
great  deal  of  money. 

DULANEY.  It 's  not  as  much  as  you  would  have 
to  pay  William  J.  Burns  to  watch  me. 

CUNNINGHAM.  But  I  haven't  nearly  so  much 
money  as  people  think. 

DULANEY  [laughing]  Oh,  cut  it  —  a  thousand 
dollars  more  or  less  is  nothing  to  you.  Why 
can't  we  get  together  on  this?  [Then  with  an  in 
spiration]  I  '11  tell  you  what  —  give  me  the 
money  and  hold  out  on  her  for  that  amount  next 
time  she  asks  you  for  money. 

CUNNINGHAM  [smiling  as  the  suggestion  takes 
root]  I  brought  this  home  to  give  her  in  the 
morning.  I  meant  to  keep  her  in  a  good  humor 
against  some  bad  news  I  '11  have.  [Drawing  a  roll 
of  bills  from  his  pocket  he  counts  them]  A  thou 
sand  dollars,  all  new,  see?  [Dulanei/  reaches  for 
it,  but  Cunningham  withdraws  his  hand.  ]  I  '11 
[47] 


THE   FOUR-FLUSHERS 

tell  you,  we  '11  split  up  this  money  of  Muriel's  be 
tween  us  —  five  hundred  each  as  balm  for  the 
disappointment  she  gave  us  both. 

DULANEY.  Oh,  that 's  always  what  I  have  to 
expect — I  always  have  to  divide  up  every  time 
I  operate.  All  right.  [He  takes  his  share.]  Shake 
hands. 

CUNNINGHAM  [shaking  hands]  Most  extraor 
dinary,  most  extraordinary. 

DULANEY.  How  long  have  you  lived  in  New 
York? 

CUNNINGHAM.     Less  than  a  year. 

DULANEY.  Well,  you  '11  know  before  long  that 
little  old  New  York  is  full  of  ginks  just  as  ex 
traordinary  as  I  am.  [Takes  up  his  hat.]  But  I 
must  be  getting  along  before  Muriel  comes  into 
this  room  to  elope.  [They  smile,  Cunningham  not 
so  merrily.]  It  would  never  do  for  her  to  see  us 
together.  If  you  really  want  to  hold  your  wife 
you  don't  want  to  let  her  know  that  you  ever  saw 
or  heard  of  me.  Forgive  her,  but  don't  let  her 
know  that  you  forgive  her.  For  there  are  some 
things  that  no  woman  can  forgive  a  man  for  for 
giving  her.  It  just  convinces  the  woman  that  the 
man  is  a  nut  about  her,  and  she'll  do  as  she 
pleases.  [Cunningham's  features  betray  the  most 
helpless  chagrin.]  You  'd  better  get  out  that  door 
[indicating  right]  before  she  comes.  [Cunning 
ham  hastens  toward  door  then  hesitates  with  his 
hand  on  the  knob  and  speaks  nervously.] 

CUNNINGHAM.  Hadn't  you  better  leave  her  a 
note  to  say  that  you  've  backed  out  of  the  elope 
ment  ? 

[48] 


THE    FOUR-FLUSHERS 

DULANEY.  No  notes  to  women  for  mine.  I 
very  nearly  had  to  marry  one  once  just  for  a  pen 
scratch.  She  will  just  think  that  I  never  came 
and  draw  her  conclusions. 

CUNNINGHAM.  But  Fuller  knows  that  you 
came. 

DULANEY  [thoughtfully]  Oh  —  er  —  yes  —  ring 
for  him  and  get  out.  I'll  just  tell  that  damned 
blackmailing  sneak  to  tell  her  I  Ve  decided  not 
to  go  with  her. 

[Cunningham  presses  button  in  wall  near 
door  right  and  makes  a  cautious  exit.  Dulaney 
stands  in  center  watching  door  right  for  the  ap 
pearance  of  Fuller.  The  head  of  Fuller  appears 
from  behind  curtain  right  side  of  doorway  — 
where  Mrs.  Cunningham  is  also  hidden.  Fuller 
coughs  to  let  Dulaney  know  that  he  has  been  hid 
ing,  and  as  the  latter  beholds  his  head  the  rest  of 
the  butler's  person  emerges  and  Fuller  comes 
down  stage.] 

FULLER.     You  rang,  sir? 

DULANEY  [embarrassed]  Yes,  I  have  a  message 
for  Mrs.  Cun  — 

FULLER.     Yes,  sir,  I  heard  it  all,  sir. 

DULANEY  [angered]  Trust  you  for  that. 

FULLER.  Aye,  sir,  and  I  did  admire  your  abil 
ity  to  turn  a  phrase,  sir.  When  you  said  that 
"blackmail  without  a  witness  was  like  pleasant 
discourse  in  a  rose  garden "  it  struck  me  as  a 
most  expressive  epigram,  sir. 

DULANEY.     Yes  —  yes? 

FULLER.  And  begging  your  pardon,  sir 
[drawing  nearer  to  Dulaney  and  rubbing  his 
[49] 


THE   FOUR-FLUSHERS 

hands]  but  what  might  you  say  to  blackmail 
where  there  happened  to  be  a  witness,  sir? 

[The  two  men  look  into  each  other's  eyes,  the 
butler  with  insinuation  and  Dulaney  with  com 
prehension.] 

DULANEY.     I've  seen  you  before. 

FULLER.  Yes,  sir,  I  was  the  witness  to  one  of 
your  earliest  and  most  elastic  marriages,  sir. 
Surely  you  remember  me.  [Fuller  gazes  intently 
at  Dulaney' s  features.] 

DULANEY.     What  are  you  looking  at? 

FULLER.  That  tiny  scar,  sir,  over  your  left 
eye  where  you  were  struck  by  the  girl's  brother 
—  I  didn't  know  you  at  first,  sir.  But  now  the 
whole  case  comes  back  to  me.  It  was  all  hushed 
up,  too,  and  you  left  town  for  quite  a  while,  sir. 

DULANEY.     Well,  you  keep  your  mouth  shut. 

FULLER.  I  can  do  it,  sir.  But  there  are  tricks 
in  all  trades  [he  coughs  suggestively,  and  Dulaney 
hands  him  a  bill]  and  a  man  must  live,  sir. 
[Dulaney  peels  off  another.] 

DULANEY.     Now  mind,  you  '11  keep  quiet. 

FULLER.  Oh  yes,  sir.  [Dulaney  makes  a  hasty 
exit.]  All  right,  ma'am,  they've  both  gone. 
[From  behind  the  curtain  Mrs.  Cunningham,  a 
chastened  spirit,  comes.  She  sinks  down  on  sofa 
while  Fuller  pours  her  a  drink  of  brandy.]  There 
now,  my  lady,  this  will  pull  you  together.  [She 
drinks.  ] 

MRS.  CUNNINGHAM.  Oh,  Fuller,  was  n't  it  ter 
rible —  a  dozen  shocks  one  right  after  the  other, 
Fuller  —  and  oh,  when  I  ducked  behind  that  cur 
tain  and  found  you  there  —  oh,  the  shock  of  it  — 
[50] 


THE   FOUR-FLUSHERS 

FULLER  [standing  back  of  the  sofa  and  looking 
down  at  her  solicitously] .  I  'm  very  sorry,  my 
lady. 

MRS.  CUNNINGHAM.  And  Vincent  Dulaney  — 
the  low  dog  —  the  loathsome  beast —  [She1  takes 
a  picture  from  her  bosom.]  Here's  his  picture. 
[Looks  at  it.]  There  was  always  something  about 
his  face  that  I  didn't  like.  I  wonder  why  I 
didn't  notice  it  sooner.  [Throws  picture  into 
fire,  and  as  the  fireglow  lights  up  her  features  she 
gazes  meditatively  into  the  flames.]  Oh,  I  had  to 
have  some  one  to  play  with,  and  the  really  at 
tractive  men  —  the  men  worth  while  —  Fuller, 
have  you  noticed  it? 

FULLER.     Noticed  what,  my  lady? 

MRS.  CUNNINGHAM.  That  the  men  worth 
while  don't  run  after  married  women. 

FULLER.  I  dare  say  they  mean  no  affront, 
ma'am.  They  're  probably  busy  with  other  things. 

MRS.  CUNNINGHAM.  That 's  it,  Fuller,  and  the 
devil  finds  mischief  for  idle  hands.  Now  I  sup 
pose  that  I  am  not  the  only  woman  who  was  ever 
bored  with  her  husband. 

FULLER.     I  knew  one  other  well. 

MRS.  CUNNINGHAM.     Who  was  that? 

FULLER.     My  first  wife,  ma'am. 

MRS.  CUNNINGHAM.  Did  the  marriage  end 
unhappily. 

FULLER.     No,  ma'am;  we  were  divorced. 

MRS.  CUNNINGHAM.  Oh  —  er  —  yes.  [She 
grows  more  thoughtful.]  Fuller,  you  would  not 
tell  me  that  I  am  a  really  bad  woman,  would  you? 
[51] 


THE   FOUR-FLUSHERS 

FULLER.  Oh,  no,  ma'am,  no  man  in  service 
would  tell  his  lady  that. 

MRS.  CUNNINGHAM.  Well,  I  know  where  I 
made  my  mistake,  anyhow. 

FULLER.  A  great  many  women  do  make  matri 
monial  mistakes  —  and  they  turn  out  sometimes 
happily,  sometimes  successfully,  and  sometimes 
eugenically. 

MRS.  CUNNINGHAM.  Now  I  'm  going  to  make 
the  most  of  the  bargain.  [Rises  with  resolution 
and  walks  toward  door  right,  then  pauses  with  her 
hand  on  the  knob]  And,  Fuller,  I  don't  want  my 
husband  to  know  that  I  know  that  he  knows,  be 
cause  he  does  n't  want  me  to  know  that  he  knows. 

FULLER  [scratches  his  head,  then  seems  to 
catch  the  drift]  Oh,  yes,  I  see.  Neither  one  of 
you  were  able  to  fool  the  other,  so  you  're  going 
to  fool  yourselves.  And  it 's  not  a  bad  idea, 
ma'am,  for  self-deception  is  the  cornerstone  of 
matrimony. 

MRS.  CUNNINGHAM  [looking  at  Fuller  curi 
ously]  Fuller,  you  don't  seem  altogether  like  a 
butler  to  me.  1,'d  rather  you  wouldn't  call  me 
"  my  lady."  It  does  n't  seem  natural. 

FULLER.  It  is  n't  natural,  ma'am,  it 's  civi 
lized.  [Fuller  bows  and  Mrs.  Cunningham  exits 
door  right.  Fuller  begins  to  straighten  out  the 
tea  things,  tosses  off  a  drink  of  brandy,  and  lines 
his  vest-pocket  with  cigars.] 

[Cunningham  enters  from  the  hallway,  coming 
from  the  right,  but  not  in  time  to  observe  the  but 
ler's  business  with  the  cigars.] 
[52] 


THE   FOUR-FLUSHERS 

CUNNINGHAM  [eagerly]  How  is  everything, 
Fuller? 

FULLER.  All  right,  sir.  Just  sit  steady  in 
the  boat.  She  's  found  a  snug  harbor,  sir,  and  is 
casting  her  anchor. 

CUNNINGHAM  [gravely]  Well,  I  hope  it  holds 
fast,  Fuller,  for  there 's  going  to  be  an  awful  storm 
in  the  morning. 

FULLER.     How's  that,  sir? 

CUNNINGHAM.  S-s-sh!  draw  nearer.  This  has 
been  a  day  of  disillusionments.  First  I  find  that 
my  wife  is  untrue  to  me,  then  I  learn  that  she  is 
not  the  person  she  pretended  to  be,  and  then  I 
find  that  even  her  lover  was  a  —  what  was  the 
term  used  — 

FULLER.      Four-flusher,  sir? 

CUNNINGHAM.  Yes,  and  now  I  'm  beginning  to 
wonder  if  even  I  may  not  have  placed  myself  — 
what  might  I  say  —  er  —  may  not  have  placed 
myself  in  a  false  light. 

FULLER.  Say  not  so,  sir.  Surely  I  am  not  the 
only  person  here  who  is  strictly  on  the  square,  sir. 

CUNNINGHAM.  I  'm  afraid  you  are,  Fuller,  but 
in  order  that  you  may  lose  nothing  from  the  wreck 
[he  produces  a  yellow  bill]  —  and  to  keep  your 
goodwill —  [Hands  bill  to  Fuller,  -who  pockets 
it.] 

FULLER.     Then  you're  not  a  millionaire,  sir? 

CUNNINGHAM.  I  drew  my  last  thousand  dol 
lars  out  of  bank  to-day,  Fuller. 

FULLER.  And  you  gave  half  of  that  to  Mr. 
Dulaney,  sir? 

CUNNINGHAM  [chuckles]  Not  much  I  did  — 
[53] 


THE   FOUR-FLUSHERS 

that  was  bogus  paper  I  handed  him.  [Fuller 
clutches  at  his  pocket,  sways,  and  puts  his  hand 
to  his  brow,  while  his  features  reflect  agony.] 
What's  the  matter,  my  man? 

FULLER.  Nothing,  sir  —  nothing  but  the 
shock,  sir.  But  seeing  your  finish,  sir,  would  you 
mind  telling  me  how  you  got  your  start,  sir? 

CUNNINGHAM.  I  came  from  the  great  middle 
west,  Fuller,  about  a  year  ago,  with  $56,000  in 
real  money.  When  I  got  through  telling  who  I 
was  people  wanted  to  meet  me.  Several  women 
wanted  to  marry  me,  but  Muriel  somehow  made 
me  believe  that  she  really  cared  [grows  senti 
mental  in  his  tone]  for  me  and  not  for  my  mil 
lions.  Perhaps  it  was  because  she  made  me  think 
that  so  many  other  millionaires  were  trying  to 
marry  her.  All  her  friends  were  men  of  money, 
that  is  — 

FULLER.  Yes,  sir,  I  know  the  type,  sir  —  mil 
lionaires  who  run  out  of  carfare  and  borrow  three 
dollars  from  small  capitalists  in  order  to  make  the 
little  fellows  feel  at  ease  with  them. 

CUNNINGHAM.  Be  that  as  it  may,  Fuller,  when 
I  found  my  wife  in  that  man's  arms  it  gave  me 
the  one  biggest  surprise  of  my  life.  [Gazes  ab 
sently  into  fire.]  There's  no  fool  like  an  old  fool, 
but,  oh,  there  is  balm  in  Gilead.  Revenge  is  swi-i't 
to  the  mildest  man.  She  has  been  stung  as  well 
as  I.  [A  crafty  look  comes  into  his  face,  and  he 
beckons  the  butler  toward  him  and  hands  him  an 
other  bill.]  Do  me  a  favor,  Fuller. 

FULLER  [looking  at  the  bill]  Gladly,  sir. 

CUNNINGHAM.  When  I  'm  gone  tell  Mrs.  Cun- 
[54] 


THE   FOUR-FLUSHERS 

ningham  that  I  shan't  be  worried  if  she  does  n't 
pay  the  rent  for  this  suite. 

FULLER.     Yes,  sir.     Anything  more,  sir? 

CUNNINGHAM.  That's  all  —  I  leave  in  the 
morning.  Until  then  my  troubles  do  not  begin. 
{Crosses  to  door  right,  turns,  and  winks  at  Fuller.] 

{Exit  Cunningham,  and  the  doorbell  rings. 
Fuller  goes  to  hallway  in  answer  to  bell.  There 
is  a  bustling  heard  in  the  hallway  and  a  woman 
sweeps  in  through  doorway,  from  left,  abreast  of 
butler.  She  is  an  elderly,  overdressed,  stout  per 
son  with  something  of  a  waddle  in  her  carriage.] 

FULLER.  They  're  not  receiving  anyone, 
ma'am. 

WOMAN.  Oh,  that 's  all  right.  I  'm  her 
mother.  I  '11  go  right  to  her  room.  [Starts 
toward  doorway  right,  but  the  butler  blocks  her 
way.] 

FULLER.      But,  ma'am  — 

WOMAN.  I  guess  you  're  a  pretty  fresh  but 
ler,  are  n't  you  ?  I  'm  her  mother,  I  tell  you  — 
[Fuller  eyes  her  closely.]  Well  of  all  nerve! 
You  must  be  new  to  the  butler  business.  [Pokes 
her  fingers  in  his  side  whiskers,  but  the  butler  con 
tinues  to  stare.]  Say,  you've  never  worked  in 
swell  places  before,  have  you?  Well,  I  want  you 
to  know  that  I  'm  a  lady  —  I  am  —  and  I  won't 
take  impudence  from  any  damned  butler. 

FULLER    [spontaneously]    Well,    if    this    don't 

beat  Hell!     [She  glares  at  him  a  moment,  then  a 

look  of  recognition  comes  to  her  face.]     Don't  you 

know  me  after  all  these  years,  Marie?  [She  swoons, 

[55] 


THE   FOUR-FLUSHERS 

and  he  leads  her  to  sofa.     She  takes  a  drink  of 
brandy  which  he  hands  her.] 

WOMAN.  George  Thompson,  but  this  is  one 
knockout.  [She  straightens  up  with  pride.]  But 
you  see  where  I  've  landed  the  kid  you  threw  at 
me,  don't  you?  May  God  be  thanked  that  you 
didn't  keep  her.  But  honest  to  Moses,  George, 
didn't  you  know  her  at  all? 

FULLER.  I  haven't  seen  her  since  she  was  a 
month  old,  and  I  've  only  been  here  two  days. 
And  I  'm  leaving  to-morrow. 

WOMAN.  Well,  don't  wake  her  up  —  she  '11  be 
having  enough  disillusionments  in  time. 

FULLER.  Yes  —  they  will  be  coming,  doubtless. 
[He  wags  his  head,  and  the  two  gaze  into  the  fire. 
Then  the  woman  begins  to  laugh  almost  hysteri 
cally.  She  puts  her  feet  up  to  the  fire  and  slightly 
raises  her  skirt,  revealing  a  none  too  stylish  ankle 
and  apparel.] 

WOMAN.  Sit  down  here,  George.  [She  pulls 
the  butler  down  on  sofa  beside  her.]  Gee,  but 
ain't  this  some  world!  To  think  that  Muriel 
Cunningham  —  Muriel  Van  Vleet  Cunningham  — 
is  none  other  than  your  little  Sadie.  [She  laughs 
again.]  Believe  me,  I  haven't  been  living  on  Man 
hattan  Island  all  my  life  for  nothing.  I  'm  re 
sponsible  for  her  getting  into  this  nest,  and  now 
I  've  come  to  get  mine.  I  guess  we  won't  shake 
that  old  gink  down.  He 's  simply  nutty  about 
Sadie,  and  when  we  get  through  pulling  his  leg  he 
will  be  able  to  take  one  step  from  the  Bronx  to  the 
Battery.  Let  me  put  you  next,  George,  he  's  roll 
ing  in  money. 

[56] 


THE    FOUR-FLUSHERS 

FULLER.     Yes,  so  I  'm  told. 

WOMAN.  And  ain't  it  lucky  that  I  took  the 
kid  instead  of  you?  You  would  never  have  gotten 
her  into  anything  like  this. 

FULLER.  I  hope  not  —  I  mean  —  er,  probably 
not.  I  '11  admit  that  you  are  a  clever  woman, 
Marie. 

WOMAN.  Clever  ain't  the  word,  George.  I  'm 
profound.  And  up  to  this  moment  I  have  n't  even 
let  him  see  me. 

FULLER.  You'd  better  not  let  him  see  you 
now,  either. 

WOMAN.  Why  not?  I  'm  not  such  a  gloom  as 
all  that  to  look  at. 

FULLER.  No,  it  isn't  that  —  I  was  thinking 
you  'd  better  come  back  here  to-morrow  afternoon 
—  after  I  'm  gone,  see  ? 

WOMAN  [considering]  I  guess  you're  right. 
[She  rises.]  I'll  beat  it  back  to  my  Newport 
villa  by  the  sea  [swaggers]  up  on  West  183rd 
Street.  [Helps  herself  to  cigars.]  I '11  take  some 
of  these  along  to  my  old  man  —  I'm  a  good  soul, 
George.  Didn't  I  take  good  care  of  you?  You 
had  nothing  to  complain  of  up  till  the  day  I  left 
you. 

FFLLER.  I  didn't  complain  then.  [She  looks 
at  him  curiously.]  That  is,  Marie  —  oh,  you 
know  —  I  took  it  in  the  right  spirit. 

WOMAN.  Well,  I  'm  off.  Take  care  of  Sadie 
and  don't  let  that  old  mark  get  run  over  by  a 
street  car  till  after  I  get  to  him  to-morrow. 

FULLER.  Don't  forget  to  come  back  —  to 
morrow. 

[57] 


THE   FOUR-FLUSHERS 

WOMAN   [with  a  wave  of  her  hand]  Trust  me 
—  to-morrow.     [Exit  smiling.] 

FULLER  [musing]  To-morrow  —  she'll  be  just 
in  time  to  pay  the  rent. 

CURTAIN 


For  Permission  to  Produce 

this  Play  Apply  to 
NOKMAN  U®  SWARTOUT 


[58] 


THE   HARBOR  OF  LOST  SHIPS 

A   PLAY   IN    ONE    ACT 

Adapted  from  a  short  story  by  ELLEN  PAYNE  RULING 
BY 

LOUISE    WHITEFIELD    BRAY 


CHARACTERS 

BILLY  GOSSE,  a  crippled  lad  of  fourteen 
MOIRA  GOSSE,  his  sister,  a  girl  of  twenty 
ISAAC  HAAN,  an  elderly  neighbor 
PARSON  TORBIN,  a  young  minister 


DIALECT:  The  Labrador  inflection  is  largely  a  mat 
ter  of  clipping  words,  "  see  t,"  "  wi'  you,"  etc.  The 
accusative  of  the  personal  pronoun  is  lacking.  The 
Labrador  fisherman  says  "  he,"  "  she,"  "  they,"  for 
"  him,"  "  her,"  "  them,"  or  clips  any  of  these  into 
"  un,"  i.  e.,  "  hear  un."  The  neuter  gender,  likewise, 
is  lacking.  For  it  either  the  masculine  or  feminine  is 
used,  according  to  preference.  Moira,  Billy,  and 
Isaac  speak  the  dialect.  The  Parson  has  had  some 
what  more  education. 


Originally  produced  April  3,  1917,  by  the  Harvard  Dramatic 
Club.  Copyright,  1917,  by  Louise  Whitefield  Bray.  Permission 
for  amateur  or  professional  performances  of  any  kind  must  first 
be  obtained  from  The  47  Workshop,  Harvard  College,  Cam 
bridge,  Mass.  Moving  Picture  rights  reserved. 


THE   HARBOR   OF  LOST    SHIPS 

SCENE  :  The  bleak  gray  light  of  a  winter  after 
noon  comes  through  the  windows  of  the  Gosse  cot 
tage  on  Lone  Island,  off  the  coast  of  Labrador. 
Billy  Gosse  is  lying  on  a  couch  near  the  door  of 
his  room  with  Moira  knitting  near  him.  Although 
he  is  fourteen,  he  is  only  a  wee  lad,  and  seems  even 
smaller  because  he  is  so  ill.  The  room,  although 
the  kitchen  of  the  better  type  of  Labrador  house, 
is  very  barely  furnished,  but  immaculate.  Through 
the  one  window  (rear  right)  is  seen  a  bit  of  the 
bleak,  snow-covered  landscape.  Under  the  window 
is  a  shelf  containing  several  red  geraniums  in  tin 
cans  from  which  the  labels  have  been  removed. 
Next  the  window  is  a  table  covered  cozily  with  a 
bright  red  cloth.  On  it  are  Moira's  workbasket, 
a  Bible,  and  an  unshaded  oil  lamp.  On  nails  near 
by  hang  Moira's  wraps  and  Billy's  homemade 
crutch.  Through  the  door  (rear  left)  we  catch 
further  glimpses  of  the  bare  Labrador  country 
when  one  of  the  neighbors  lifts  the  old-fashioned 
latchstring.  Beyond  the  couch,  table,  and  a  few 
stiff-backed  chairs,  the  only  furniture  in  the  room 
is  an  old  range,  the  pipe  projecting  through  the 
roof  instead  of  through  the  wall.  A  teakettle 
sings  on  the  front  of  the  stove,  and  an  old,  brown 
earthenware  teapot  is  set  at  the  back.  By  the 
stove  stands  a  water  butt  and  over  this  are  rough 
[61] 


HARBOR   OF   LOST   SHIPS 

shelves  of  dishes.  A  door  left  leads  to  the  wood 
shed,  and  a  door  right  to  Billy's  room.  Hand- 
woven  rugs  on  floor.  Other  chairs  according  to 
size  of  stage. 

COSTUMES:  Moira  Gosse  wears  a  bright  flannel 
waist  with  a  handkerchief  folded  round  her  throat, 
a  full  woolen  skirt,  a  fresh  percale  apron,  and  skin 
boots.  The  Parson  and  Isaac  wear  similar  boots. 
They  are  home-cured  and  home-sewed  and  come 
to  the  knees.  When  Moira  goes  out,  she  puts  on 
a  sweater,  knitted  cap,  a  heavy  old  ulster,  scarf, 
and  mittens. 

Billy  wears  a  light  shirt  turned  back  at  the 
throat,  knee  trousers,  heavy  knitted  stockings, 
moccasins,  and  a  warm  gray  wrapper. 

The  Parson's  suit  is  the  conventional  shabby 
black,  skimpy  and  shiny,  and  his  overcoat  is  too 
small  and  too  thin  to  keep  out  the  Labrador  cold. 
His  sealskin  cap  pulls  down  over  his  ears.  Isaac 
is  dressed  in  the  Labrador  fisherman's  costume, 
skin  boots,  fur  cap,  knitted  muffler,  several  sweat 
ers,  and  a  short,  thick  coat  or  Mackinaw. 

[Moira  knits  quietly,  keeping  close  watch  of 
Billy.] 

BILLY.  Could  ye  be  puittin'  my  crutch  by  me, 
sister? 

MOIRA  [leaning  forward  as  he  stretches  out  his 
hand]  Ay,  lad.  [She  takes  the  homemade  crutch 
from  the  nail  and  hands  it  to  Billy,  who  stands 
it  up  by  his  couch.]  But  ye '11  not  be  needin'  it 
the  day.  Why  do  ye  want  it? 

BILLY.  When  I  see 't  here  by  me,  I  'm  for- 
[62] 


gettin'  I  'm  ill  an'  I  think  I  've  but  put  it  aside  for 
a  nap. 

MOIRA.     I  would  ye  had  never  to  use  the  thing. 

BILLY.  Moira !  'T  is  a  beautiful  crutch !  "Par 
son  ne'er  made  such  another.  I  'm  thinkin'  the 
lame  lads  on  the  mainland  have  all  crutches  one 
pattern,  but  mine  be  the  only  one  thislike. 

MOIRA.  Sh-h,  now,  Billy.  Is 't  the  fever 
makes  ye  chatter  so?  Rest  a  while,  lad,  an'  ye 
can  hear  the  wind  beat  back  the  tide. 

[Both  seem  to  be  listening  to  the  tide.  After 
a  moment  Billy  sighs.] 

MOIRA  [leaning  forward]  What 's  troublin'  ye, 
lad? 

BILLY.  'T  is  nothin'.  I  was  but  thinkin'  where 
the  lost  tides  go,  an'  the  stars  in  the  dawn,  an' 
most  where  the  lost  ships  go.  There  's  a  powerfu' 
manv  o'  they,  I  'm  thinkin'. 

MOIRA.     Powerfu'  many. 

BILLY.  There  's  hunderds,  I  'm  thinkin',  hun- 
derds  o'  ships,  an'  hunderds  o'  men,  like  the  fishin' 
fleet  beatin'  north  in  June. 

MOIRA.      Donna  think  on  't  now,  lad. 

BILLY  [not  heeding]  An'  'tis  somewhere  they 
goes,  for  they  never  comes  back.  Have  ye  heard 
where  it  is,  Moira,  the  harbor  of  lost  ships? 

MOIRA.     Nay,  Billy,  't  is  a  far  sail  to  that  port. 

BILLY.  Aye,  't  is  far.  'T  will  be  a  grand  place, 
wi'  grass  an'  trees  so  beautiful  they  canna  leave. 
'Twill  be  to  the  south,  beyond  the  ice.  0  sister, 
will  ye  take  me  there  sometime? 

MOIRA.  The  Lord  forbid!  Look  now,  'tis  all 
tired  ye  are.  Lie  still  an'  I'll  tell  ye  about  St. 
[63] 


HARBOR   OF   LOST   SHIPS 

Johns  where  all  the  schooners  come  from.  [She 
smooths  his  hair  gently  as  she  talks.]  'T  is  won- 
erfu'.fine.  On  the  hill  the  governor  sits  to  see  the 
ships  pass  by.  And  beyond  are  moors  full  o'  the 
loveliest  flowers,  star  o'  Bethlehem  an'  vetch  an' 
the  rest.  Up  on  the  high  moors  't  is  warm  an' 
still ;  ye  can  lie  an'  look  up  at  the  blue ;  't  is  warm 
an'  soft  an'  quiet  there,  far  above  the  weary  sea  — 

[Billy's  hand  slips  from  hers.  She  stoops  to 
kiss  him.  As  she  starts  to  put  away  her  knitting, 
Isaac  Haan  tramps  up  to  the  outer  door.  Moira 
opens  it  for  him,  closing  it  again  quickly  to  shut 
out  the  cold  wind.] 

MOIRA.  Come  in,  neighbor.  Sh-h,  the  lad 's 
just  sleepin'. 

[Isaac  and  Moira  converse  in  low  tones  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  room  from  Billy.] 

ISAAC  [stamping  his  feet  and  snapping  his  fingers 
as  quietly  as  possible]  'T  is  an  evil  wind,  Moira. 
I  'm  nipped  to  the  bone  wi'  the  cold. 

MOIRA.  I  hope  ye  've  come  to  no  harm.  Ye  be 
old  to  be  bravin'  this  weather  an'  o'er  soon  from 
the  sick  bed. 

ISAAC.  I  '11  be  warm  in  a  bit.  The  womenfolk 
sent  me  over  to  see  if  ye  'd  wood  to  keep  ye  goin' 
while  yer  father 's  awa'.  They  'd  gie  me  no  peace 
till  I  come. 

MOIRA.  'T  were  neighborly  in  they,  Isaac. 
Zure,  the  wind  's  eaten  the  wood  in  my  fire  till  I  've 
naught  but  a  few  sticks  left.  Cleave  me  enough 
for  the  day  an'  father  '11  pay  when  he 's  back  from 
the  mainland. 

ISAAC.     We  '11  not  be  mindin'  the  pay. 
[64] 


HARBOR   OF   LOST    SHIPS 

MOIRA.  'T  is  kind.  Have  ye  the  time  for 
cleavin'  it  now,  Isaac? 

ISAAC.     Aye,  lass. 

MOIRA.  Ye  '11  find  the  axe  in  the  woodshed 
yonder.  Mayhap  we  'd  best  move  the  lad  into  his 
room,  less  he  wake  at  the  cleavin'. 

[Isaac  and  Moira  go  over  to  Billy's  couch.  As 
Isaac  lifts  Billy,  Moira  wraps  a  shawl  about  him.] 

MOIRA.  Raise  un  soft  an'  careful,  Isaac,  an' 
I  think  ye  '11  not  be  wakin'  un. 

ISAAC.  'T  is  zure  there  's  more  spirit  nor  flesh 
to  the  lad.  He  weighs  but  a  trifle. 

BILLY  [half  rousing]  Moira! 

MOIRA.  Quiet,  Billy.  'T  is  best  ye  should 
sleep,  lad. 

[As  they  come  out  again,  Isaac  takes  off  his 
coat,  cap,  and  muffler  and  hangs  them  up  on  the 
nails.] 

ISAAC.     How  does  the  lad,  do  ye  think,  Moira? 

MOIRA.  All  day  the  fever 's  been  on  he,  makin' 
un  restless  an'  chatterin'  an'  full  o'  whimsies.  Be 
tween  whiles  he  sleeps,  but  't  is  a  strange,  stupid 
sleep,  leavin'  un  weaker  nor  before.  He  's  no  so 
well,  Isaac. 

ISAAC.  He  were  aye  white  an'  frail-like,  re 
member. 

MOIRA.  Aye,  so  frail  I  've  feared  many  the 
time  he  'd  slip  frae  my  hands.  He  may  be  slippin' 
now,  Isaac. 

ISAAC.     Have  ye  let  un  know  how  ill  he  be? 

MOIRA.     Nay.    How  could  I  tell  un? 

ISAAC.     Ye  mun  tell  un   an'   send   for  Parson 
Torbin.     The  lad  's  never  been  converted. 
[65] 


HARBOR   OF   LOST    SHIPS 

MOIRA.     He'll  see  no  parson. 

ISAAC.  'Tis  but  right  that  he  be  prepared. 
'T  is  for  the  good  of  his  soul. 

MOIRA.  I  '11  not  have  un  troubled.  Ye  mind 
the  time  old  Parson  Graff  o'  Roarin'  Cove  preached 
on  hell  torment?  'Twas  a  wild  night  outside. 
Billy  sat- just  starin'  into  the  pit  o'  dark  behind 
the  pulpit  an'  the  look  in  the  lad's  eyes !  What 's 
a  child  like  Billy  to  do  wi'  hell? 

ISAAC.  'T  is  hell  he  be  bound  for,  the  lad,  your 
own  brother,  less  he  be  converted.  If  ye  willna  let 
the  lad  see  the  Parson,  'tis  the  Parson's  duty  to 
see  the  lad  whether  ye  will  or  no.  If  he  or  any 
other  Christian  man  lets  the  lad  die  unprepared, 
then  the  sin  rests  on  his  head. 

[The  Parson  passes  the  window.] 

ISAAC.  Yon  that  passed  was  the  Parson.  'T  is 
the  Lord  hath  sent  un ! 

[Moira  opens  the  door.] 

MOIRA.     Come  in,  zur ! 

[The  Parson  enters,  coughing.  The  sea  wind 
blows  in  with  him.] 

PARSON.     Aye,  but  the  wind  is  bitter ! 

MOIRA.      I  '11  be  fetchin'  ye  a  mug-up  to  warm  ye. 

[She  goes  to  the  stove  and  pours  out  a  cup  of 
tea.] 

PARSON  [as  Moira  is  getting  the  cup  and  fil 
ing  it]  Good-day,  neighbor! 

ISAAC.  Good-day,  Parson.  'T  is  no  a  day  to 
thank  God  for  Labrador.  Have  they  called  ye 
far? 

PARSON.     Nay,  there 's  none  needin'  me.     I  've 
come  but  over  the  road  from  the  parsonage. 
[66] 


HARBOR   OF   LOST   SHIPS 

MOIRA  [handing  Parson  the  tea]  Drink  't. 

[As  the  Parson  drinks  she  lifts  a  cover  from 
the  stove  and  turns  to  Isaac.] 

MOIRA.  The  fire 's  burnin'  very  swift,  Isaac. 
If  ye  could  be  cleavin'  the  wood  now  — 

ISAAC.     I  '11  be  doin'  it.    Remember,  lass  ! 

[As  Isaac  goes  out,  Moira  turns  to  the  Parson 
abruptly.] 

MOIRA.     Why  did  ye  come? 

PARSON.     T'  see  Billy. 

MOIRA.  Ye  know  ye  '11  not  see  him.  Ever  since 
he  heard  Parson  Graff  talk  o'  hell,  he  's  been  won- 
erfu'  feared  o*  dyin'. 

PARSON.     But  if  he  should  die  unprepared ! 

MOIRA.  He  's  no  need  to  be  prepared.  He 's 
never  a  thought  or  a  deed  that  isna  sweet ! 

PARSON.  Moira,  ye  know  not  what  ye  are 
sayin'.  There  's  sin  in  us  all  from  the  day  we  are 
born.  There 's  no  hope  for  any  soul,  no  matter 
how  young  he  be,  less  he  find  his  justification  by 
faith  and  confession  of  sin. 

MOIRA.  The  Lord  wouldna  hurt  Billy.  He, 
couldna ! 

PARSON.  Moira  !  'T  is  the  Book  itself  says  it. 
"  Every  spirit  that  confesseth  is  of  God,  and  every 
spirit  that  confesseth  not  is  not  of  God.  But  for 
the  unbelieving,  their  part  shall  be  in  the  lake  that 
burneth  with  fire  and  brimstone.  The  smoke  of 
their  torment  goeth  up  forever  and  ever ;  and  they 
have  no  rest  day  nor  night."  Moira,  ye  must  let 
me  see  the  child!  Canna  ye  see  that  'tis  faith 
alone  that  can  save  him? 

MOIRA.     Aye,  but  there 's  more  nor  one  faith ! 

[67] 


HARBOR   OF   LOST   SHIPS 

Ye  've  yours,  and  I  've  mine !  I  'm  not  believing 
the  Lord  means  Billy  in  aught  that  ye  say  the 
Book  says.  Ye  can  pick  a  bit  here  an'  pick  a  bit 
there,  an'  I,  bein'  but  an  ignorant  woman-body, 
canna  show  ye  wrong,  but  my  heart  tells  me  ye  be 
na  fair  nor  right  to  the  Lord.  Ye  'd  have  me  be 
lieve  that  fear  is  the  breath  of  his  nostrils.  He 
that  gave  his  Son  to  the  Cross,  't  is  love  He  would 
have! 

PARSON.     Moira,  why  be  ye  so  stubborn? 

MOIRA.  I  mind  what  Mother  said  to  me, — 
"  Take  care  o'  Billy.  He  's  no  like  the  rest.  Take 
care  o'  he,  an'  donna  let  they  frighten  he." 

PARSON.  'Tis  naught  to  the  fright  and  the 
fear  he  will  suffer  forever ! 

MOIRA.  I  'm  not  thinkin'  so !  I  know  the  lad, 
and  I  know  the  fear  came  on  him  'cause  he  'd  no 
conviction  o'  sin,  as  Parson  Graff  said  he  mun  have 
or  be  damned.  He  were  but  ten,  but  his  eyes  were 
a  torment  to  me.  I  '11  not  have  that  look  come 
back.  He  shallna  be  troubled. 

PARSON.  But  think  o'  yourself,  lass.  Think  o' 
your  guilt  if  he  dies  unprepared  —  the  guilt  an' 
the  sin  on  your  head !  Lass,  I  canna  rest  with  that 
over  ye  —  I  love  ye  too  well ! 

[A  spasm  of  coughing  interrupts  him.  She  puts 
her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  Billy  calls  from  the 
next  room.] 

BILLY.     Moira ! 

[The  Parson  starts  toward  the  door.  Moira 
puts  her  body  against  it.  He  struggles  to  enter.} 

MOIRA.  Let  be !  Have  I  na  said  ye  shallna  see 
him? 

[68] 


HARBOR   OF   LOST    SHIPS 

[He  steps  back  baffled.    Her  face  softens.] 

MOIRA.  Lad,  I  canna —  If  'twere  anything 
else  — 

[He  takes  her  in  his  arms.] 

PARSON.  Lass,  ye  love  me !  Ye  know  ye  love 
me  —  ye  mind  our  words  on  the  hill  in  June.  'T  is 
by  our  love  I  ask  —  let  me  see  the  child ! 

MOIRA  [pushing  him  away]  Never!  Listen! 
'T  is  not  o'  my  will  that  ye  '11  ever  see  him.  An' 
ye  see  un  against  my  will,  't  is  the  end  of  our  love 
forever.  Now  go ! 

[The  Parson  goes  to  the  door.  Isaac  stands  at 
the  shed  door  listening  curiously,  his  arms  full^of 
wood.] 

PARSON.  If  ye  are  needin'  me  at  the  last,  hang 
a  red  handkerchief  from  the  signal  pole  at  the 
door.  I  '11  see  't  from  my  window.  Ye  know  I  '11 
come.  Good-bye,  lass.  Oh  lass  — 

[Isaac  comes  in  with  the  wood.] 

BILLY  [within]  Moira! 

MOIRA.  I  'm  comin',  Billy.  The  fire  '11  be 
needin'  that  now,  Isaac. 

ISAAC  [half  grumbling  as  Moira  goes  out]  The 
fires  and  the  women  they  give  ye  no  peace  on  Lone 
Island. 

[Moira  returns  swiftly.] 

MOIRA.     He  be  strangely  worse,  Isaac ! 

ISAAC.      Call  back  the  Parson ! 

MOIRA.     Nay,  ye  know  I  '11  not  do  't ! 

ISAAC.  Ye  be  wicked  obstinate,  girl.  'T  is 
someun  should  do  yer  duty  for  ye,  since  ye  've  no 
mind  to  do  it  yerself. 

[69] 


HARBOR   OF   LOST    SHIPS 

MOIRA.  Donna  trouble  me,  Isaac.  He  may  be 
dyin'.  Is  there  naught  un  can  do? 

ISAAC.  Naught  for  his  body  but  everything 
for  his  soul,  an'  ye  willna ! 

MOIRA.  There  mun  be  someun  could  help  he. 
O  why  be  there  no  doctor  on  Lone  Island? 

ISAAC.     Doctor?    Ye 'd  go  for  he? 

MOIRA.     Do  ye  know  of  un,  Isaac? 

ISAAC  [muttering]  No  —  yes —  It  was  yester 
day  the  doctor  from  the  mainland  were  on  Crooked 
Island. 

MOIRA.     What  did  ye  say? 

ISAAC  [more  firmly]  I  said  'twas  yesterday  the 
doctor  from  the  mainland  were  on  Crooked  Island. 

MOIRA.     The  one  that  cured  Jane  Pilley? 

ISAAC.     Aye. 

MOIRA.     I  '11  be  goin'  for  that  doctor. 

ISAAC  [  to  him,self]  'T  is  the  hand  o'  the  Lord  ! 

MOIRA  [gathering  her  wraps  together]  O  Isaac, 
could  ye  na  go?  [Isaac  looks  disturbed,  but  Moira 
does  not  wait  for  an  answer.]  Nay,  I  know  that 
ye  canna.  Ye  be  old,  an'  zure,  my  feet  are  the 
swifter.  An'  I  darena  ask  Parson  to  face  the  wind 
on  the  ice  with  the  cough  well-nigh  strangling  his 
throat  as  it  is.  'T  is  I  only  can  go. 

ISAAC.     Hasten,  lass. 

MOIRA.  Bring  the  lad  out  here.  'T  is  wicked 
cold  yonder  an'  ye  couldna  be  watchin'  he  there. 
Ye  can  watch,  ye  an'  Mary? 

ISAAC.     Aye,  we  can  take  care  o'  he. 

[Isaac  brings  Billy  from  the  inner  room  while 
Moira  puts  on  her  wraps.] 

MOIRA  [as  she  helps  Isaac]  I  may  be  two  hours 
[70] 


HARBOR  OF   LOST   SHIPS 

if  the  ice  is  breakin'  as  they  told  me  'twere  yes 
terday.  Father  '11  not  be  home  till  to-morrow  at 
best.  [Covering  Billy  with  a  shawl]  Let  un  sleep 
an'  he  can.  Be  ye  snug  an'  warm,  Billy? 

BILLY.     Aye,  Moira.    Where  art  goin',  sister? 

MOIRA  [kissing  Billy]  I  '11  be  bringin'  the  kind, 
big  doctor  an'  all  goes  well.  Ye  be  good  to  watch, 
Isaac. 

ISAAC  [a  little  ashamed]  Go  on,  girl,  an'  ye  're 
goin' ! 

MOIRA.     Pray  the  Lord  lend  me  wings ! 

[Moira  goes  out.  Isaac  watches  her  from  the 
window.] 

BILLY  [presently]  Isaac ! 

ISAAC.     Wait  a  bit,  lad. 

[He  goes  outdoors  and  brings  in  the  signal  pole, 
to  which  he  fastens  the  red  handkerchief  he  whips 
from  hig  pocket.] 

ISAAC  [a*  he  comes  in  the  door  with  the  pole] 
Now  what  is  't,  lad? 

BILLY.  They  say  ye  '11  be  needin'  another  hand 
for  the  Break  o'  Day  when  the  fleet  goes  north  in 
June. 

ISAAC.     Zo  I  will,  lad. 

BILLY.  I  'd  not  be  much  for  the  traps,  count 
o'  my  crutch,  but  zur,  I 's  powerfu'  good  on  watch. 

ISAAC.     Better  nor  many  a  full-grown  man,  lad. 

[He  goes  out  with  his  pole  and  returns  quickly 
out  of  the  cold.] 

ISAAC  [continuing]  Donna  be  thinkin',  Billy. 
'T  is  bad  for  ye.  'T  is  not  mindin'  yer  sister  ye 
are.  Go  to  sleep. 

BILLY.     I  '11  be  tryin',  Isaac.     I  dunno  if  they 

[71] 


HARBOR   OF   LOST   SHIPS 

be  my  thoughts.     They  come  all  quiet-like  in  my 
head  when  I  'm  not  knowin'  I  'm  thinkin'  at  all. 

ISAAC.     What  a  queer  lad  ye  be ! 

[Billy  dozes.  Isaac  fills  the  teakettle  from  the 
water  butt  by  the  stove  and  is  building  up  the  fire 
when  the  Parson  enters.] 

PARSON.     Were  ye  needin'  me,  Moira  darlin'? 

ISAAC.  Sh-h.  [He  glances  at  Billy.}  She's 
gone  for  the  doctor. 

PARSON.     Then  who  was  it  signaled  me? 

ISAAC.      'T  was  I  called  ye.     The  lad 's  failin'. 

PARSON.  Ah,  the  wee  lad.  Is  there  aught  I 
can  do? 

ISAAC.  Aye.  If  she  willna  do  her  duty  by  un, 
then  we  mun  do  't  for  she. 

PARSON.     What  d'ye  mean,  Isaac? 

ISAAC.     Ye  mun  convert  he. 

PARSON.  I  canna  talk  to  the  lad  when  she  be 
na  by  to  know  't. 

ISAAC.  Less  ye  save  un  an'  quickly,  the  lad  's 
bound  for  hell. 

PARSON.      She  forbade  me  most  bitter. 

ISAAC.  Ye  've  no  call  to  be  thinkin'  o'  she.  'T  is 
the  lad  ye  mun  mind. 

PARSON.  But  ye  're  not  knowin',  man.  I  'm 
lovin'  her,  Isaac,  an'  she  wouldna  forgive  me! 

ISAAC.  I'm  knowin'  this,  —  ye  'd  be  leavin'  a 
soul  to  be  damned  for  the  whim  of  a  girl.  'T  is  the 
lad's  last  chance  while  she 's  awa'. 

PARSON  [after  a  moment]  Ye  be  right,  Isaac. 
The  Lord  forgive  me  ! 

[Billy  wakens  with  a  cry,  sees  the  Parson,  and 
cowers.] 

[72] 


HARBOR   OF   LOST    SHIPS 

BILLY.  I  dreamed  I  were  dead  an'  buried  in 
the  Buryin'  Cove  on  the  mainland  an'  't  was  black 
an'  chill  an'  I  couldna  breathe.  'T  was  the  be- 
ginnin'  o'  hell!  O  zur,  is  it  dyin'  I  am? 

PARSON  [gently]  It  may  be  so,  lad. 

BILLY.     I 's  mortal  feared  o'  dyin'. 

[During  this  scene  the  Parson  is  struggling  be 
tween  sympathy  for  the  lad  he  is  torturing  and 
belief  that  only  through  this  torture  can  the  child 
be  saved.] 

PARSON.  Ye  needna  be  feared,  lad.  'Tis  the 
Lord  God  will  take  to  Himself  all  those  that  be 
lieve  on  His  name.  Ye  believe  in  the  Lord  Jesus, 
surely,  lad? 

BILLY.     O  aye,  zur ! 

PARSON.  'T  is  but  little  He  asks  in  return  for 
His  infinite  grace.  Ye  've  but  to  repent  of  the  sin 
that  is  in  you  — 

BILLY.  O  zur,  I  've  tried.  I  've  no  knowin'  how 
to  repent. 

PARSON.  Ye  must,  lad.  'T  is  bitter  hard  an' 
ye  fail.  "  Except  ye  repent,  'ye  shall  all  likewise 
perish,"  saith  He. 

BILLY.  O  zur,  I  've  told  ye  I  canna  be  feelin' 
it.  'T  is  na  there !  I  've  no  knowin'  what  to  do, 
zur! 

PARSON.  'T  is  sin  that  is  holdin'  ye  back.  He 
says  in  the  Book,  "  If  we  say  we  have  no  sin,  the 
truth  is  not  in  us."  'T  is  in  ye,  lad,  an'  it  mini 
be  repented  ere  ye  can  find  grace.  O  think,  lad, 
ye  've  but  a  little  time  ere  ye  confront  Him,  face 
to  face. 

[73] 


HARBOR   OF   LOST   SHIPS 

BILLY.  I  'm  feared  o'  the  Lord  ye  be  tellin'  me 
of.  Let  me  go  to  the  Lord  Moira  loves.  He  be 
gentle  an'  kind.  Let  me  go  to  Him ! 

PARSON.  He  be  my  Lord,  too,  Billy,  but  He  be 
just  as  well  as  kind.  Moira 's  not  been  tellin'  ye 
all  ye  should  know.  For  them  that  do  His  bidding 
He  has  infinite  mercy,  but  for  them  that  do  not 
there  is  utter  damnation.  'T  is  forever  and  ever 
with  never  a  moment's  rest.  O  lad,  if  ye  '11  only 
obey  and  repent  — 

[Billy  starts  up  absolutely  terror-stricken.] 

BILLY.     I  canna.    I  canna. 

PARSON.     Donna  harden  your  heart,  lad. 

BILLY.  Oh,  I  mun  be  so  wicked  that  I  canna 
feel  it.  What  shall  I  do,  zur?  Oh,  where  will 
I  go? 

PARSON.     To  the  torments  of  hell ! 

[Moira  enters  and  hears.] 

MOIRA.  'Tis  a  lie!  [She  rushes  to  the  couch 
and  puts  her  arms  around  the  trembling  child,  who 
sinks  back  into  them.]  'Tis  a  lie!  Donna  believe 
they,  my  laddie!  [To  the  Parson]  How  can  ye 
say  it?  How  can  ye  think  it?  [She  turns  fiercely 
on  Isaac.]  Ye  tricked  me!  I'd  got  but  to  the 
old  fisherwoman's  hut  to  be  told  what  ye  knew  all 
the  time.  The  doctor  were  on  Crooked  Island  but 
he  went  back  to  the  mainland  yesterday,  as  she 
herself  told  ye.  Ye  tricked  me  an'  tortured  my 
laddie ! 

[Isaac  tries  to  speak.] 

ISAAC.     Moira,  ye  — 

MOIRA.     I  '11  not  listen.    Leave  us  alone. 
[74] 


HARBOR   OF   LOST   SHIPS 

[Isaac  goes  out.  Moira  sits  on  the  edge  of  the 
couch,  holding  Billy  close  and  trying  to  soothe 
him.] 

PARSON.     Moira,  't  was  to  save  the  child's  soul ! 

MOIRA.     Ye  torture  a  child  an'  call  it  religion ! 

PARSON.     O  Moira,  my  love  — 

MOIRA  [springing  up  and  facing  him]  Donna 
prate  o'  love !  I  'm  seein'  ye  now  for  just  what  ye 
are  an'  I  'm  not  lovin'  ye.  'T  was  the  lad  that  I 
deemed  ye,  I  loved.  I  'm  mazed  that  I  ever  could 
dream  I  could  love  such  a  man  as  ye  be ! 

PARSON.     Ye  be  not  fair,  Moira. 

MOIRA.  Was  it  fair  to  come  like  a  thief  in  the 
night  when  I  wasna  by? 

PARSON.     I  thought  that  ye  called  me. 

MOIRA.  But  when  ye  found  't  were  not  I,  did 
ye  na  bide?  I  '11  not  be  holdin'  ye  now. 

PARSON.  Moira,  don't  send  me  away.  I  '11  not 
ask  ye  to  understand  now,  but  let  me  stay  an  ye 
need  me. 

MOIRA.  I  'd  not  have  ye  seein'  me  mourn  the 
dead  man  in  your  eyes.  Will  ye  go? 

PARSON.     Moira ! 

MOIRA.     Go ! 

[As  he  leaves,  she  takes  Billy  again  in  her  arms 
and  croons  over  him.] 

MOIRA.  Oh  why  did  I  leave  ye,  my  laddie? 
Ye  musna  believe  what  they  say.  Ye  musna  be 
troubled. 

BILLY  [his  voice  is  very  weak]  'Tis  not  true? 

MOIRA.  'T  is  cruel  lies,  lad.  'T  is  cruel  lies 
against  the  good  God.  Think  ye  the  maker  o' 
mothers  be  cruel  like  that? 


HARBOR   OF   LOST   SHIPS 

BILLY.     Where  is  't  I  'm  goin'? 

MOIRA.     'Tis  a  long  journey. 

BILLY.     Over  the  sea? 

MOIRA.     Aye,  over  the  sea. 

BILLY.     To  the  harbor  o'  lost  ships? 

MOIRA.  Aye,  lad,  to  the  harbor  of  all  lost 
things,  o'  lost  ships  an'  the  souls  o'  men.  'T  is 
beyond  the  stars,  beyond  the  sea,  beyond  the  edge 
o'  the  world.  An'  't  is  there  the  mothers  wait  on 
the  hill,  an'  watch  till  the  ships  beat  home,  an'  the 
Lord  God  comes  down  to  meet  them  to  welcome 
them  home  from  the  sea.  "  'T  is  a  brave  beat  to 
harbor  ye  've  made,"  says  He.  "  Ye  '11  be  weary. 
Come  now  and  rest."  [ There  is  no  answer.]  Lad ! 
[There  is  no  answer.  Moira  flings  herself  down 
by  Billy.]  Lad,  lad,  take  me  wi'  you! 

CURTAIN 


[76] 


THE   SCALES  AND  THE   SWORD 

A    SOCIAL    DRAMA    IN   ONE    ACT 

BY 

FARNHAM    BISHOP 


CHARACTERS 

JOHN  ALLOWAY,  a  Grocer 

ED  ALLEN,  his  Clerk  (Corporal  in  the  National 

Guard) 
DWIGHT  GILMORE,  Attomey-at-Law  (Captain  in 

the  National  Guard) 
A  LIBRARIAN  "^ 

A  DRUMMER 
A  MECHANIC  Y  Refugee*  from  the  burning 

AN  OLD  IRISHWOMAN  J  l  & 

OTHER  REFUGEES  AND  MILITIAMEN 
NEWSBOY 


Originally  produced  April  11,  1911,  by  the  Harvard  Dramatic 
Club.  Copyright,  1911,  by  Farnham  Bishop.  Permission  for 
amateur  or  professional  performances  of  any  kind  must  first  be 
obtained  from  The  47  Workshop,  Harvard  College,  Cambridge, 
Mass.  Moving  Picture  rights  reserved. 


THE   SCALES  AND  THE   SWORD 

SCENE  :  The  interior  of  a  typical  cheap  gro 
cery  m  a  suburban  town.  The  shop  is  sunk  be 
neath  the  level  of  the  street  and  is  reached  by  a 
descent  of  three  steps  to  the  door,  left  back  —  the 
only  entrance.  Through  the  glass  panels  of  this 
door  and  over  the  fly-specked  pyramids  in  the 
window  can  be  seen  the  sidewalk  and  a  row  of 
frame  houses  across  the  street.  The  street  slopes 
down  from  left  to  right. 

Inside  the  store  are  two  counters,  one  right  run 
ning  the  full  length  of  the  side,  and  opposite  it 
one  half  as  long,  down  left.  On  the  shorter  coun 
ter  is  a  large,  nickel-plated  pair  of  scales,  on  the 
longer  a  show  case,  a  cash  register,  and  a  large, 
glass-sided  bread  box,  containing  wire  shelves 
loaded  with  loaves  and  bearing  a  prominent  placard 
with  the  legend,  "  Alloway's  Peerless  Loaf,  5$" 
Behind  this  counter  are  shelves,  full  of  canned 
goods  —  at  least  one  shelf  being  practicable.  Be 
tween  stage  left  and  the  door  are  the  usual  vege 
table  boxes  and  barrels,  and  more  stand  outside 
the  door,  on  the  sidewalk.  There  is  a  ceiling  gas- 
jet,  not  practicable. 

TIME:  The  day  of  a  great  fire.  Late  March 
afternoon. 

[Before  rise  of  curtain,  Newsboy  is  heard 
calling.] 

[79] 


SCALES   AND   THE    SWORD 

NEWSBOY.  Extra!  Big  fire!  Extra! 
[At  rise,  Allen,  the  clerk,  discovered.  He  is  a 
pleasant-looking  young  chap,  with  a  thoughtful 
face  and  uncommonly  good  carriage,  standing  be 
hind  the  counter  left,  filling  paper  bags  with  sugar 
and  weighing  them  on  the  scales.] 

NEWSBOY  [off  stage]  Extra!  Big  fire  in  the 
city!  Extra!  [Enters  right,  crosses.]  Extra! 
Big  fire  in  the  city !  Extra ! 

ALLEN.  Hi,  boy,  gimme  a  paper!  [Newsboy 
enters  store;  Allen  buys  paper.]  Where's  the 
fire,  kid? 

NEWSBOY.  Down  in  Polacktown.  Gee,  I  saw 
a  whole  block  go  up  like  a  celluloid  collar! 

[Wind  whistles.] 

ALLEN.     No  cinch  stopping  it  in  this  wind. 

NEWSBOY.  Aw,  it  '11  be  all  over  'fore  I  can 
get  downtown  again.  [Goes  up  stage  as  Allowai/, 
the  proprietor,  a  gross,  bulky,  red-joidcd  num. 
of  forty-five,  with  a  narrow  forehead  and  obsti 
nate  jaw,  enters  and  Gome's  down.  He  is  evidently 
afflicted  with  a  grouch.] 

NEWSBOY.     Paper,  sir? 

ALLOWAY.     No !     Clear  out  o'  here. 

|  Ka'it  Newsboy.] 

NEWSBOY  [off  stage]  Extra!    Big  fire!    Extra! 

[Allen  drops  the  paper  and  resumes  work. 
Alloway  crosses  to  behind  right  counter,  taking  off 
hat  and  coat.] 

ALLEN.     Seen  the  fire,  Mr.  Alloway? 

ALLOWAY.  Think  I  got  any  time  to  fool  away 
on  fires?  [Puts  on  apron]  What  you  putting 
up  now? 

[80] 


ALLEN.  Five  pound  sugars.  [Snaps  string, 
and  puts  bag  under  counter.] 

ALLOWAY.     How  much  off? 

ALLEN  [laying  his  hand  on  the  scale  and  look 
ing  at  the  dial]  Ounce  and  a  half  to  the  pound. 

ALLOWAY.  Tighten  up  the  spring  and  don't 
weigh  any  more  'n  you  can  help  this  afternoon. 

ALLEN  [doing  mysterious  things  to  the  scales 
with  a  small  screwdriver,  and  speaking  with  ill- 
suppressed  sarcasm]  Folks  buying  here  to-day 
will  get  good  measure. 

ALLOWAY.  Folks  buying  here  for  the  next 
week  will  get  stung  a  half  ounce  extra. 

ALLEN.  Aw,  say,  Mr.  Alloway  —  isn't  that 
soaking  'em  pretty  hard? 

ALLOWAY  [in  a  tone  of  just  grievance]  That 
dirty  thief  Maloney  soaked  me  twenty  dollars  for 
letting  me  know  when  the  inspector  was  coming 
round.  Talk  about  my  selling  light ;  look  how 
I  have  to  buy  light.  [Takes  down  a  package  of 
cereal  from  the  shelf.]  That  scale  0.  K.  now? 

ALLEN.     Yep. 

ALLOWAY  [crosses,  holds  up  package  and  reads 
from  it]  "Two  pounds  of  Pure  Nutriment." 
[Tosses  it  contemptuously  into  the  pan  of  the 
scales.]  What's  it  good  for? 

ALLEN.     Twenty-nine  ounces,  counting  the  box. 

ALLOWAY.     There  you  are. 

ALLEN.  Say,  somebody  ought  to  get  after 
those  fellows.  [Crossing  down  left]  Let's  put  it 
up  to  Dwight  Gilmore. 

ALLOWAY.  Catch  me  backing  any  of  Dwight 
[81] 


SCALES   AND   THE    SWORD 

Gilmore's  muckraking ;  upsetting  business  and  get 
ting  Maloney  and  the  interests  down  on  me. 

ALLEN.  They  're  grafting  all  you  make  now. 
And  it  all  comes  out  of  the  little  old  consumer. 

ALLOW  AY.  Aw,  don't  talk  to  me  about  the 
little  old  consumer.  He'd  consume  his  little  old 
grandmother  if  he  got  the  chance.  Is  n't  one  of 
them  in  that  city  [jerks  his  liead  toward  the 
right]  wouldn't  come  in  here  to  bellyache  about 
the  Trusts,  and  then  try  to  pass  a  plugged  nickel 
for  a  loaf  of  my  good  bread.  That 's  the  way  it 
goes,  all  the  way  up  and  down  the  line.  [Crosses 
down  right.] 

ALLEN.  Maybe.  But  I  don't  see  the  justice 
of  it. 

ALLOWAY.  Justice?  What's  justice  got  to 
do  with  business? 

ALLEN.  Dwight  Gilmore,  he  says  it 's  got  a 
pile.  He  wrote  a  piece  about  it  for  the  paper  — 
it  ended  up  something  like  this  [knits  his  brows 
trying  to  recall  the  exact  words]  :  "  The  longer  we 
cheat  the  scales  of  justice  the  heavier  will  be  the 
blow  of  her  sword." 

ALLOWAY.  "  Scales  of  j  ustice,  scales  of  j  ustice  " ; 
what  the  —  [His  eye  falls  on  his  own  scales  across 
the  room,  and  he  chuckles  violently.  ]  Oh,  you  mean 
that  bum  pair  of  balances  the  old  stone  lady  down 
at  the  Court  House  has  in  her  mitt.  Don't  you 
worry  none  about  them,  son.  So  long  as  Tim 
Maloney  gets  his,  regular,  he  can  fix  her  scales  as 
easy  as  I  can  fix  mine. 

ALLEN.     But  what  about  the  sword? 

ALLOWAY.  Sword?  Don't  waste  any  time 
[82] 


SCALES   AND   THE    SWORD 

fussing  about  a  sword.  [Crossing  up  behind 
counter]  People  don't  go  trapesin'  around  with 
a  sword  nowadays.  Swords  ain't  business. 

[The  wind,  which  has  been  whistling  off  and  on 
for  the  last  five  minutes,  gives  vent  to  a  long, 
piercing  whoop.  A  cloud  of  dust  passes  up  the 
hill  from  right  to  left.  Both  men  look  up  stage.] 

ALLEN.     Pretty  high  wind  this  afternoon. 

ALLOWAY.  It 's  blowin'  dust  all  over  those 
goods  on  the  sidewalk.  Bring  'em  in. 

[Alloway,  behind  long  counter,  pulls  out  his 
ledger,  as  Allen  goes  outside  and  lays  hands  on  a 
barrel  beside  the  door.  He  bows  his  head  to  the 
wind,  but  as  he  straightens  up  to  lift  t]ie  barrel, 
his  attention  is  attracted  by  something  off  stage 
to  the  right,  and  he  shades  his  eyes  and  gazes  for  a 
few  seconds,  before  bringing  in  the  barrel  and 
setting  it  down  left  of  door.] 

ALLEN.  Say,  there 's  a  funny-looking  cloud 
down  there  over  the  city.  It 's  blue-black  like  a 
niggerhead,  but  all  puffed  up  like  one  of  those 
cum-u-lus-ses. 

ALLOW  AY.  Huh.  [He  is  not  interested  in 
clouds.  ] 

ALLEN  [goes  out,  looks  again,  and  returns 
with  a  box]  Say,  it's  risin'  and  pourin'  up  at 
the  bottom  like  smoke.  But  it  can't  be  the  fire, 
— -  it 's  too  big. 

ALLOWAY  [without  looking  up]  'Course  it  ain't 
the  fire. 

[Allen  opens  door  to  go  out.  The  wind 
shrieks  violently,  thd  stage  is  momentarily  darker, 
and  several  pieces  of  charred  paper  flutter  down 
[83] 


SCALES   AND   THE    SWORD 

into  the  street.    Allen  runs  out,  picks  one  up,  and 
rushes  into  the  store.] 

ALLEN.  Look-a-here,  Mr.  Alloway,  it  is  the 
fire !  It 's  raining  ashes ! 

ALLOWAY.     Git   those  vegetables   in  —  quick! 

[They  hurry  out  and  bring  in  a  heavy  boxful 
between  them.] 

ALLEN  [as  they  work]  The  whole  city  must  be 
burning  up ! 

ALLOWAY.  Never  you  mind  the  city,  —  bring 
in  those  cabbages ! 

[Exeunt  both  for  cabbages.  When  these  are 
under  cover,  the  two  stand  in  the  open  doorway 
to  look  at  the  distant  fire.] 

ALLEN  [outside  of  doorway]  It's  drivin'  on  at 
a  block  a  minute ! 

ALLOWAY.     Can't  reach  us  across  the  river. 

[He  comes  inside,  crosses  to  behind  right  counter 
and  resumes  his  study  of  the  ledger.  Allen  comes 
in  and  clears  the  boxes  away  from  the  steps.  The 
local  fire  whistle  screams  three  times,  then  fii*e, 
with  the  stroke  of  a  bell  between  each  blast. 
Several  men  run  doicn  the  street  from  left  to  righ  t.  ] 

ALLEN.  General  alarm!  [As  the  last  man 
passes  the  door]  Hey,  Bill!  [Runs  to  door  and 
shouts  after  the  man,  who  is  by  this  time  off 
stage.]  Hey,  Bill !  How 's  the  fire? 

BILL'S  VOICE.     Bad  as  'Frisco! 

ALLEN.     When  'd  it  start  ? 

BILT.'S   VOICE.      Early   this    mornin'  —  back   o' 
the   Polack  quarter.      Wind 's   sweeping   it   right 
through  the  city.     They  've  lost  two  engines,  and 
sent  all  over  the  state  for  help. 
[84] 


SCALES   AND   THE    SWORD 

ALLEN.     Anybody  killed? 

BILL'S  VOICE.  More  'n  a  hundred.  Piles  of 
refugees  comin'  over  the  ferry.  I'm  goin'  down 
to  see  our  engines  go  over.  So  long! 

[Alloway  looks  up  for  the  first  time  from  the 
ledger.  ] 

ALLEN.  So  long!  [Comes  inside]  Say,  Mr. 
Alloway,  business  is  pretty  slow  this  afternoon; 
couldn't  I  take  a  look  at  the  fire? 

ALLOWAY.  You  stay  right  here.  We  '11  get 
plenty  of  business  from  those  refugees. 

[Fire  apparatus  is  heard  passing  rapidly  from 
left  to  right  behind  the  screen.] 

ALLEN  [goes  up  to  door]  There  go  the  en 
gines  down  Ferry  Street.  Guess  most  of  the 
folks  from  the  city  will  go  up  that  way. 

ALL.OWAY.  Those  big  stiffs  on  Ferry  Street 
always  hog  the  trade.  They  '11  get  all  the 
refugees. 

[The  Librarian,  a  frail  little  old  gentleman, 
with  white  side  whiskers  and  shiny  black  clothes, 
enters  right,  limps  up  the  hill,  and  stands  hesitat 
ingly  at  the  door.  His  ordinarily  pale  face  and 
neat  linen  are  plentifully  begrimed  with-  smoke 
and  soot.] 

ALLEN.     Here 's  one  of  them  now. 

[The  Librarian  enters  shop,  and  stands  looking 
around,  as  if  undecided  what  to  do  next.] 

ALLEN.     How's  the  fire? 

LIBRARIAN.     Dreadful,   dreadful.      [Sees   chair 

by  the  door.     Sits  down  wearily.]     I  had  no  idea 

walking   was    so    fatiguing.      For   eighteen    years 

I  have  walked  three  blocks  from  my  room  to  the 

[85] 


SCALES   AND   THE    SWORD 

library,  —  I  am  the  assistant  custodian  of  the 
public  library,  —  and  back  again  at  night.  Three 
blocks  each  way,  no  more,  —  except  that  one 
walks  a  great  deal  in  the  stacks.  And  now  I  have 
walked  for  hours. 

ALLEN.     Lost  much? 

LIBRARIAN.  All  gone.  Eighty-six  thousand 
volumes,  —  some  of  them  priceless. 

ALLEN.     I  mean  did  you  lose  much? 

LIBRARIAN  [simply]  Oh,  yes,  my  room  was 
destroyed  while  we  were  trying  to  save  the  books. 
You  see,  the  fire  came  that  way. 

ALLOWAY  [significantly]  Anything  I  can  do 
for  you? 

LIBRARIAN.  Oh,  yes;  I  quite  forgot.  I  want 
some  things  for  camping  out. 

ALLOWAY.     Campin'  out? 

LIBRARIAN.  I  believe  that  is  the  proper  term. 
Everybody  on  the  ferryboat  said  that  we  should 
have  to  spend  the  night  in  the  fields,  as  the  suburbs 
were  already  filled.  What  does  one  buy  to  camp 
out? 

ALLOWAY.  Better  ask  my  clerk.  He  goes 
campin'  every  summer  with  the  militia. 

[Allen  crosses  to  behind  long  counter,  assembles 
briskly  two  loaves  of  bread,  several  cans  of  beans, 
a  jar  of  bacon,  a  can  of  coffee,  and  hands  these  to 
the  Librarian  in  a  paper  bag.] 

ALLEN.  This  ought  to  last  you  till  they  start 
relief  stations.  You  can  buy  a  blanket  and  a  fry 
pan  up  street.  Better  get  a  hatchet,  too. 

LIBRARIAN   [taking  out  purse  and  fumbling  in 


SCALES   AND   THE    SWORD 

it]  I  'm  afraid  I  have  n't  money  enough  for  all 
those  things ;  and  I  don't  know  how  to  cook. 

ALLEN.  Better  bunk  in  with  a  feller  who  can. 
This  will  be  a  dollar  even.  —  Thank  you. 

LIBRARIAN.  I  thank  you,  my  young  friend. 
[Goes  up  stage  to  door.]  They  are  charging 
very  high  prices  in  the  city.  There  was  a  great 
disturbance  over  it. 

ALLEN.     Rioting? 

ALLOWAY.     Eh?     What  sort  of  prices? 

LIBRARIAN.  I  saw  a  crowd  forcibly  taking 
bread  from  a  bakery,  because  the  baker  wanted 
twenty-five  cents  a  loaf.  It  was  dreadful ;  and  not 
a  policeman  to  be  seen. 

[Alloway  wets  a  pencil  with  his  lips  and  draws 
a  "  2  "  before  the  "  5$  "  on  the  bread-box  placard. 
Librarian  opens  the  door.  The  wind  whistles.] 

ALLEN.  Have  they  called  out  any  of  the 
militia  yet? 

LIBRARIAN.  I  really  do  not  know.  Here  come 
some  more  people.  You  had  better  ask  them. 
[Shivers]  I  think  I  shall  buy  that  blanket  now. 
Good-day,  gentlemen.  [Closes  door  with  a  little 
half  bow;  exit  left  across  window.] 

ALLEN.     Poor  old  devil ! 

ALLOWAY.  Damned  old  sneak.  Cheated  me 
out  of  four  dollars'  worth. 

[Half  a  dozen  refugees  enter  outside  from  right. 
Their  leader,  the  drummer,  is  the  only  one  of  the 
little  band  who  looks  either  clean  or  comfortable. 
He  is  a  big,  jovial  man,  carrying  his  war-worn  suit 
case  with  accustomed  ease,  and  wearing  across  his 
left  shoulder  a  jaunty  blanket  roll  stamped  in  red 
[87] 


SCALES   AND   THE   SWORD 

letters  "  American  House,"  He  is  followed  by  a 
little  man  lugging  a  huge  bundle  wrapped  up  m  a 
crazy  quilt;  the  man's  wife,  with  a  hand  satchel 
and  a  gilt-framed  chromo;  a  woman  with  a  shawl 
over  her  head,  and  two  angora  kittens  in  a  card 
board  box;  and  two  young  men  carrying  a  steamer 
trunk  between  them.  They  stop  outside  the  door, 
and  are  seen  to  consult.] 

DRUMMER  [enters  the  shop,  sees  the  sign  on 
the  bread  box,  sets  down  his  suitcase,  center,  opens 
the  door,  and  calls]  Twenty-five  cents,  people! 

[The  five  crowd  in  eagerly.  The  Drummer 
crosses  to  long  counter.] 

DRUMMER.  Half  a  dozen  of  your  twenty-five- 
cent  whites. 

[Allen  reaches  into  the  bread  box  to  serve  him.] 

ALLOWAY  [stops  Allen  and  demands  of  the 
Drummer]  What  you  paying  in  town  now? 

ONE  OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN  WITH  THE  TRUNK. 
Fifty  cents  a  loaf. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN  WITH  THE  TRUNK.  Shet 
your  fool  mouth ! 

ALLOW  AY  [Changing  the  sign  to  50^.]  Fifty 
cents  it  is,  and  the  rest  accordin'. 

THE  LITTLE  MAN  WITH  THE  BUNDLE.  It 's 
highway  robbery ! 

ALLOW  AY.  Take  it  or  leave  it.  You  don't 
have  to  buy  here.  [Crossing  down  a  step  or  two.] 

DRUMMKU  \layimg  /m  Ini/nJ  on  liix  ample  waist 
coat]  No,  friend?  Have  you  tried  buying  down 
town? 

[Allen  crosses  to  left.  All  moi*e  up  to  the  conn- 
[88] 


SCALES   AND   THE    SWORD 

ter  and  buy  briskly,  except  woman  with  kittens. 
Woman  with  chromo  notices  this  and  approaches.] 

WOMAN  WITH  CHROMO.  Aren't  you  going  to 
buy  anything? 

WOMAN  WITH  KITTENS.  No.  '[Stroking  kit 
tens]  These  are  all  I  've  got  left. 

WOMAN  WITH  CHROMO  [beckoning  to  her 
spouse]  John!  Oh,  John! 

[He  comes  up  with  a  bag  full  of  food,  and  they 
hitch  up  two  vegetable  boxes  and  use  the  back  of 
the  chromo  for  a  table  for  the  three.  The  two 
young  men,  who  have  been  talking  aside  with  Allen 
at  left,  sit  down  on  their  trunk  to  eat.  The  Drum 
mer  makes  himself  comfortable  on  his  inverted 
suitcase,  center.] 

DRUMMER.  Cheer  up,  people!  It  might  be  a 
blame  sight  worse.  Next  month  you  '11  all  be  buy 
ing  parlor  grands  from  me  with  the  insurance 
money.  That 's  the  way  they  did  at  'Frisco. 

SECOND  YOUNG  MAN  WITH  THE  TRUNK.  And 
we  'd  build  her  up  again,  same  as  'Frisco. 

CHORUS.     You  bet ! 

JOHN,  THE  MARRIED  MAN  [lifting  the  bag  off 
the  chromo  and  displaying  that  work  of  art]  Me 
and  my  wife  are  goin'  to  open  a  picture  store  with 
this.  [General  laugh.] 

ALLEN.     Any  looting  in  the  city? 

FIRST  YOUNG  MAN  WITH  THE  TRUNK.  Lots. 
They  say  the  militia  shot  one  man  on  sight. 

DRUMMER.  They  did.  I  saw  it.  [All  look  to 
him  to  tell  the  story.  Darkness  begins  to  fall  and 
the  red  glow  of  the  burning  city  to  flicker  on  the 
walls  of  the  room  and  the  houses  opposite.  The 

[89] 


SCALES   AND   THE    SWORD 

wind  moans  at  intervals.]  When  they  saw  the  old 
hotel  was  bound  to  go,  they  told  us  guests  to  take 
all  we  could  and  welcome ;  that 's  how  I  came  by 
this  blanket.  But  there  was  some  did  n't  wait  for 
an  invitation.  As  I  was  hurrying  down  Central 
Avenue  to  the  ferry,  I  happened  to  look  up  one  of 
the  cross  streets  toward  the  fire,  and  there,  half 
way  between  me  and  that  moving  Hell-wall  was  a 
man,  pushing  and  straining  at  the  steel  shutters 
of  a  jeweler's  window.  The  fire  was  n't  three  blocks 
away,  and  coming  on  fast,  but  he  never  looked  up. 
He  gave  one  big  heave,  the  shutter  slam-banged 
against  the  brick  wall,  and  the  man  lifted  his  boot 
heel  and  drove  it  through  the  plate  glass,  twice. 
He  had  his  head  and  shoulders  inside,  and  was 
grabbing  right  and  left,  when  a  column  of  infantry 
came  swinging  round  the  next  corner  into  the 
street.  The  man  at  the  window  ran  for  it,  but 
they  never  tried  to  catch  him.  The  officer  in  front 
turned  and  said  something  quiet,  a  little  militia 
man  jumped  up  on  the  sidewalk,  knelt  down  and 
took  good  aim,  and  just  as  the  looter  reached  the 
corner  and  started  to  turn,  —  bing!  went  the  gun, 
and  down  he  went,  just  as  if  he'd  been  tackled 
around  the  knees.  One  of  the  gold  bracelets  he 
was  carrying  rolled  halfway  'cross  the  street  to 
where  I  was  standin';  and  one  of  the  soldiers 
kicked  it  back  into  the  blood  that  was  dripping 
down  into  the  gutter,  as  they  marched  on  and  left 
him  lying  there,  with  the  fire  rolling  down  on  him. 
WOMAN  WITH  THE  CHROMO.  Oh-h !  What  did 
they  do  that  for?  Why  didn't  they  just  arrest 
him? 

[90] 


SCALES   AND   THE    SWORD 

DRUMMER.  No  time.  The  man  who  makes 
trouble  now  has  got  to  be  put  out  of  the  way  — 
quick. 

ALLEN.  That 's  what  they  tell  us ;  shoot  loot 
ers  on  sight. 

WOMAN  WITH  THE  CHROMO.  But  to  kill  a  man 
for  a  little  stealing! 

ALLOW  AY  [down  right]  Anybody  who'd  steal 
in  a  time  like  this  ought  to  be  shot.  Life  and 
property  have  got  to  be  protected. 

SECOND  YOUNG  MAN  WITH  THE  TRUNK  [speak 
ing  significantly,  from  the  darkest  corner] 
There  's  more  ways  of  stealin'  than  through  store 
windows. 

ALLOWAY.     What  d'you  mean? 

SECOND  YOUNG  MAN  WITH  THE  TRUNK.  Over 
store  counters. 

ALLOWAY  [furious]  That'll  do  for  you  —  all  of 
you !  If  you  don't  want  to  buy  anything  else, 
get  out.  —  Yes,  the  lot  of  you.  This  ain't  a  waitin' 
room. 

[The  refugees  pick  up  their  loads  and  go  out 
wearily,  tlie  Drummer  last  of  all.  The  others 
stand  at  the  top  of  the  steps,  pointing  at  the  burn 
ing  city,  which  throws  a  ruddy  glare  upon  them.] 

ALLEN  [to  Drummer  as  he  is  going  out]  Do  you 
think  they  will  need  more  troops? 

DRUMMER.  They  need  'em  now.  Fire  lines 
are  n't  half  tight  enough.  [Five  refugees  exeunt 
left.  Drummer  mounts  steps,  stops,  and  turns.] 
If  you  fellers  keep  on  raising  the  price  of  bread, 
they  '11  need  regulars  !  [Slams  door;  exit.] 

ALLOWAY  [unmoved]  Light  the  gas,  Ed. 
[91] 


SCALES   AND   THE   SWORD 

ALLEN  [strikes  a  match  and  holds  it  over  gas- 
jet  without  result}  Guess  the  gas  works  have 
gone  with  the  rest.  [Allen  goes  up  to  door.  Allo- 
way  gives  an  angry  grunt,  breaks  open  a  package 
of  candles,  lights  one,  and  sticks  it  with  its  own 
hot  grease  to  the  counter,  where  it  will  illumine  the 
space  between  the  cash  register  and  the  side  of 
the  bread  box.  The  rest  of  the  store  is  lit  by  the 
flickering  glare  of  the  fire.]  Say,  Mr.  Alloway, 
hadn't  I  better  run  up  to  the  Armory  and  see  if 
Gilmore's  company 's  goin'  to  be  called  out  to 
night?  It 's  only  a  step  up  street. 

ALLOWAY.  No,  sir;  you  stay  right  here  to 
night  —  call  or  no  call. 

ALLEN.  But  you  said  life  and  property  ought 
to  be  protected. 

ALLOWAY.  That's  different.  There'll  be  a 
whole  boatful  of  those  fellers  along  in  a  minute, 
and  I  want  my  clerk. 

[The  fire  bells  and  whistles  begin  again.} 

ALLEN.  Listen.  Two  —  two  —  three  two's  ! 
Militia  Call !  [Throws  off  straw  cuffs  and  apron.] 

ALLOWAY.     Hold  on  there  ! 

[A  bugle,  off  stage  to  left,  sounds  impatiently.] 

ALLEN.  Can't.  There  goes  the  "Assembly." 
[Runs  up  stage;  starts  to  open  door.] 

ALLOWAY.  You  leave  this  store  to-night  and 
you  '11  never  set  foot  in  it  again ! 

ALLEN.  You  can't  fire  a  man  for  goin'  on 
State  service.  It 's  against  the  law. 

ALLOWAY.  I  '11  fire  you  for  sassin'  me,  then ! 
Come  back,  if  you  want  your  job! 

ALLEN    [stands    at    tlie    top    of    steps,    looks 
[92] 


SCALES   AND   THE    SWORD 

toward  city,  then  down  at  his  employer,  his  young 
face  shining  in  the  fire's  light]  To  Hell  with  your 
job!  [Points  toward  city]  I'm  goin'  to  help 
them.  [Exit  left,  running.] 

[Alloway  runs  up  steps,  shaking  his  fist  after 
Allen.  He  is  evidently  in  a  towering  rage.  He 
turns  and  looks  at  the  city,  with  none  of  the  pity 
and  awe  that  the  others  have  shown  in  their  faces. 
The  murmuring  of  an  approaching  crowd  is  heard 
off  stage  to  right,  and  Alloway  rubs  his  hands  and 
smiles  at  the  prospect  of  doing  a  good  business. 
Under  the  circumstances,  and  with  the  fire's  light 
dyeing  his  long  white  apron  as  if  with  blood,  he  does 
not  look  pretty.  Entering  the  shop,  Alloway  takes 
the  candle  and  looks  into  the  front  of  the  bread 
box.  He  taps  the  glass  with  his  forefinger  as  he 
counts  each  loaf,  and  scowls  at  the  small  number 
left.  Coming  down  center,  he  regards  the  box  and 
the  placard  fixedly  for  a  moment,  then,  with  an  air 
of  decision,  pulls  down  the  card  and  tears  it  up. 
Going  behind  the  counter  and  replacing  the  candle 
by  the  cash  register,  Alloway  takes  from  under  the 
counter  a  heavy  nickel-plated  revolver  and  a  box 
of  cartridges,  loads  the  weapon  deliberately,  and 
puts  it  back  where  it  will  be  handy.  The  light 
from  the  candle  shows  Alloway  crouching  on  a  high 
stool  among  his  possessions,  like  the  figure  of 
"Goods"  in  "Everyman."  The  red  light  from 
without  throws  on  the  window  a  procession  of  sil 
houettes  bowed  under  huge,  shapeless  burdens,  as 
the  Mechanic,  the  Old  Irishwoman,  and  a  half 
dozen  others  enter  and  toil  slowly  up  the  hill. 
Opposite  the  window,  the  Mechanic  turns  and  helps 
[93] 


SCALES   AND   THE    SWORD 

the  Old  Irishwoman  with  her  bundle.  They  enter 
the  store  and  swing  their  loads  to  the  ground. 
Except  the  Old  Irishwoman,  they  are  all  men;  a 
poorer,  grimier,  and  more  determined-looking  lot 
than  the  first  band  of  refugees.  Several  are  day 
laborers,  foreigners.] 

MECHANIC  [putting  down  bundle  and  crossing 
center]  Any  bread  left  in  this  store? 

ALLOW  AY  [behind  counter]  Plenty — ^general 
sigh  of  satisfaction  and  forward  movement]  — at 
a  dollar  a  loaf.  [General  recoil  and  inarticulate 
cry  of  protest.] 

MECHANIC.  Say,  man,  you  don't  mean  that. 
Why,  one  store  down  on  Ferry  Street  was  givin' 
away  bread. 

ALLOWAY.  You  'd  better  go  get  some  there, 
then. 

MECHANIC.  There  ain't  a  mite  left  anywhere. 
Piles  of  folk  will  have  to  go  hungry  to-night.  It 's 
murder  to  hold  us  up  like  this. 

ALLOWAY.  It 's  supply  and  demand.  Take  it 
or  leave  it ;  there 's  plenty  more  '11  buy  if  you  don't. 

[They  consult  together  for  a  few  seconds.  One 
man  makes  a  passionate  gesture  and  goes  out  the 
door,  but  pauses  outside,  turning  up  his  collar  as 
the  wind  whistles  by.] 

MECHANIC  [as  if  clinching  an  argument]  Where 
else  can  we  get  any?  There  may  be  a  thousand 
people  here  in  a  minute.  [Goes  to  counter  and 
lays  down  a  crumpled  bill.]  Gimme  a  loaf,  you  — 
[Remembers  the  old  Irishwoman,  checks  himself.] 

[The  other  men  also  buy,  two  of  them  chipping 
in  to  buy  one  loaf.    They  begin  to  eat  ravenously.] 
[94] 


SCALES   AND   THE    SWORD 

OLD  IRISHWOMAN  [coming  up  to  counter,  tim 
idly]  Misther,  misther,  can't  ye  give  me  somethin' 
to  ate  for  a  nickel,  plaze? 

ALLOWAY.     No ! 

OLD  IRISHWOMAN.  But  'twas  the  price  of  a 
loaf  this  mornin',  sor. 

ALLOWAY.     It  ain't  to-night. 

OLD  IRISHWOMAN.  Won't  ye  plaze  give  me  a 
loaf  for  it  now,  sor?  'Tis  all  I've  left  in  the 
world. 

ALLOWAY.     No ! 

[She  turns  away  and  feebly  tries  to  lift  her 
heavy  bundle.  The  crowd  murmurs  angrily.  The 
Mechanic  lifts  his  hands  restrainedly,  goes  to 
counter,  and  speaks  to  the  grocer  in  a  low  tone.] 

MECHANIC.  Look  here,  bo ;  her  son  Dan  was  a 
fireman,  driver  on  No.  5  engine,  that  was  cut  off 
by  the  fire  when  the  oil  tanks  blew  up.  Dan  was 
killed  trying  to  save  his  horses.  She  don't  know 
it  yet.  You  would  n't  refuse  her  a  loaf  of  bread, 
would  you? 

ALLOWAY.  If  you  care  that  much  for  her,  dig 
up  a  dollar. 

MECHANIC  [searches  his  pockets,  holds  out  his 
hat  to  the  other  men.  They  shake  their  heads] 
You  've  cleaned  us  out.  Give  her  a  loaf  now,  and 
I  '11  pay  you  the  first  dollar  I  earn. 

ALLOWAY.     Got  a  job? 

MECHANIC.     Nope ;  factory  's  gone  up. 

ALLOWAY.     Nothin'  doin'.     [Turns  away.] 

MECHANIC.     Nothin'   doin',   hey?      [Jumps   to 
where  the  old  Irishwoman  is  standing.]      Gimme 
[95] 


SCALES   AND   THE    SWORD 

that  nickel!  [Throws  it  at  Alloway,  who  dodges.] 
There 's  your  money !  And  here 's  her  bread ! 

[He  smashes  the  glass  front  of  the  bread  box 
with  a  chair.  Man  outside  runs  in  and  joins  others 
in  a  rush,  but  before  they  can  climb  the  counter, 
or  the  Mechanic  get  a  loaf  out  of  the  box,  Allo 
way  produces  a  revolver,  and  they  retreat  to  the 
door.] 

MECHANIC.  Go  ahead,  you  woman-robber, 
shoot  us  down! 

ALLOWAY.  Get  out  of  my  store,  you  gang  of 
looters ! 

MECHANIC.  Looters  !  It 's  you  and  your  dol 
lars  that  make  looters.  You  give  her  her  bread 
or  we  '11  smash  you  like  we  did  your  bread  box ! 
[He  advances  a  few  steps  and  the  others  press 
after  him.] 

ALLOWAY.     Clear  out,  or  I  '11  shoot ! 

MECHANIC  [jeering]  You  haven't  the  nerve. 
Now,  boys —  [As  he  turns  to  exhort  the  others 
for  a  rush,  the  bugle  sounds  the  "Advance"  off 
stage  to  left.] 

ALL.     The  militia! 

ALLOWAY  [running  to  window]  Help!    Help! 

[The  refugees  start  for  the  door,  except  Me 
chanic.] 

MECHANIC.  Don't  run  !  Don't  run,  or  they  '11 
shoot  you  down !  Stand  your  ground ;  we  've  got 
our  rights ! 

[He  catches  the  first  of  tlie  two  who  are  half 
way  out  of  the  door,  and  holds  them  back.  All 
three  are  pushed  back  into  the  shop  with  consider 
able  violence  as  Captain  Gilmore  enters  from  left 
[96] 


SCALES   AND   THE    SWORD 

and  springs  down  through  the  door.  He  is  fol 
lowed  by  Allen  in  corporal's  uniform,  a  big  sergeant 
carrying  a  lighted  lantern  in  his  left  hand,  and 
four  or  more  enlisted  men.  They  are  in  blue  serv 
ice  uniform,  light  marching  order.  They  halt  just 
inside  the  door,  the  sergeant  holding  up  his  lan 
tern.  The  stage  becomes  light,  showing  Alloway 
behind  long  counter,  the  refugees  at  back,  and  Cap 
tain  Gilmore  standing  before  the  counter,  left.  The 
scales  at  his  left  hand,  and  the  drawn  sabre  in  his 
right  make  his  soldierly  figure  and  keen,  lawyer- 
like  face,  with  the  eyes  of  an  idealist,  appear  the 
incarnation  of  armed  justice.] 

GILMORE.     What's  going  on  here? 

ALLOWAY.  My  shop 's  being  looted,  that 's 
what 's  goin'  on.  Look  what  that  feller  did. 
[Points  at  the  bread  box  and  the  Mechanic.] 

GILMORE  [to  Mechanic,  sternly]  You  know  the 
penalty  for  looting? 

MECHANIC.  'T  is  n't  us  that  are  looting,  sir. 
It 's  that  fat  thief  behind  the  counter. 

GILMORE.     What  do  you  mean? 

MECHANIC.  He  's  charging  a  dollar  a  loaf  for 
bread. 

GILMORE.     Is  that  true? 

ALLOWAY.  If  a  man  comes  into  my  store  and 
wants  a  loaf  of  bread  bad  enough  to  pay  a  dollar 
for  it,  haven't  I  a  right  to  take  it? 

GILMORE.  No !  You  have  no  right  to  charge 
a  cent  above  the  legal  price. 

OLD  IRISHWOMAN.     Heaven  bless  yer  honor  for 
that  word.     [Crosses  to  counter,  right.]     Will  ye 
give  me  a  loaf  of  bread  now,  sor? 
[97] 


SCALES   AND   THE    SWORD 

ALLOW  AY.  No!  [To  Gilmore]  I  guess  I  know 
my  rights  under  the  law.  You  put  those  looters  out 
of  here  and  let  my  business  alone,  or  Tim  Maloney 
will  have  those  shoulder  straps  off  of  you  quick 
enough,  Mr.  Dwight  Gilmore. 

GILMORE.     I  am  going  to  put  you  out. 

ALLOWAY.     What? 

GILMORE.  This  store  and  its  contents  are  con 
fiscated  by  the  State. 

ALLOWAY.     I  '11  have  the  law  — 

GILMORE.     /  am  the  law. 

ALLOWAY.     You  're  crazy ! 

GILMORE.  Listen.  This  city  has  been  placed 
under  martial  law,  which  is  the  will  of  the  com 
manding  officer.  As  such,  I  declare  these  food 
stuffs  the  property  of  the  State.  Get  out  of  here 
unless  you  want  to  help  us  distribute  them. 

ALLOWAY.  Get  out !  Help  you  give  away  my 
property!  [Becomes  inarticulate.] 

GILMORE.  Corporal  Allen  !  [Allen  comes  down 
center;  salutes.]  You  work  here? 

ALLEN.     Used  to,  sir. 

GILMORE.  Take  charge  of  this  place  and  dis 
tribute  rations  at  your  discretion. 

ALLEN.  Yes,  sir.  [Salutes,  goes  behind  coun 
ter  left,  lays  his  rifle  against  the  wall.] 

ALLOWAY.  Ed  Allen,  don't  you  touch  a  thing ! 
[Produces  revolver,  comes  from  behind  long  coun 
ter,  crosses,  and  thrusts  revolver  in  Captain  GU- 
more's  face.]  Get  out  o'  here  yourself  with  your 
tin  soldiers,  or  I  '11  shoot  your  head  off! 

[Allen  and  the  other  miJit'nnnen  hesitate  to  raise 
their  rifles  for  fear  Alloway  may  shoot  their  offi- 
[98] 


SCALES   AND   THE    SWORD 

cer.  The  Captain  stands  motionless  for  a  few 
seconds,  then  with  a  quick  blow  of  his  sabre  he 
strikes  the  revolver  from  Alloway's  hand.  The 
Captain's  left  hand,  thrown  out  behind  to  pre 
serve  his  balance,  strikes  the  scales  and  sends  them 
clashing  behind  the  counter.  There  is  a  general 
rush  for  Alloway.  The  big  sergeant,  who  has  hung 
his  lantern  on  a  nail  by  the  door,  grabs  Alloway  by 
the  collar,  while  the  enlisted  men  hold  back  the  en- 
furiated  refugees  with  their  rifles.  The  latter  be 
come  quiet,  and  all  look  to  the  Captain.  His  face 
is  sterner,  but  his  voice  is  unchanged  from  that  of 
a  routine  command.] 

GILMORE.  Sergeant,  take  that  man  outside  and 
shoot  him  against  the  nearest  blank  wall. 

ALLOWAY  [as  he  is  dragged  out,  surrounded  by 
the  soldiers  and  followed  by  the  refugees]  I  '11  have 
the  law  on  you,  I  '11  have  the  law—  [Is  choked  off 
by  sergeant  as  they  mount  stairs] 

[Gilmore  turns  to  follow  them.] 

ALLEN  [appealingly]  Captain!  — 

GILMORE.  When  you  have  finished  here,  Cor 
poral,  report  to  me  in  the  city  for  further  duty, 
at  once.  That  is  all. 

ALLEN  [saluting]  Yes,  sir. 

[Alloway  and  his  escort  are  seen  through  the 
window  to  pa*ss  right,  and  are  heard  off  stage  to 
right.  Gilmore  strides  out  of  sight  after  them.] 

OLD  IRISHWOMAN  [who  has  sunk  into  a  chair  by 
the  door]  Ochone!  Ochonorie!  Mother  of  God, 
have  mercy  on  his  soul !  Ochone,  ochone ! 

[A  heavy  body  is  placed  against  outside  of  wall, 
right.     Allen  listens,  fascinated] 
[99] 


SCALES   AND   THE    SWORD 

GILMORE'S  VOICE  [raised  in  command]  Firing 
squad,  attensh'n.  With  ball  cartridge,  load !  [The 
rattle  and  click  of  the  breach  locks  are  heard.] 
Ready.  At  the  prisoner,  aim ! 

ALLOWAY'S  VOICE  [like  the  scream  of  a  fright 
ened  horse]  Don't!  Don't!  For  God's  sake  — 

GILMORE'S  VOICE.     Fire ! 

[The  crash  of  a  volley  is  heard.  Something  soft 
and  heavy  slides  down  the  outside  of  the  wall  to 
the  ground.] 

GILMORE'S  VOICE.  Firing  squad,  fall  in, 
quickly!  Company  attensh'n.  Forrard,  guide 
right,  hr'rch! 

[The  cadenced  tramp  of  a  considerable  body  of 
men  passes  away  to  right.  All  is  silent.  The  men 
from  the  city  are  still  outside  looking  at  what  had 
been  Alloway.  Allen  goes  to  the  broken  bread 
box,  takes  out  a  loaf,  and  holds  it  out  to  the  Old 
Irishwoman.  ] 

CURTAIN 


[100] 


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